Long Midnight Poems
Long Midnight Poems. Below are the most popular long Midnight by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Midnight poems by poem length and keyword.
"A Silent Song"
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Blessed or cursed
Morning shave
Coffee please
Write a verse
Remembers last night’s dream
Grabs a napkin, spills his spleen
Shoves it in his pocket
Walks to work
Sits at his desk
Carries on as usual
Chats on with the new study,
he’s on a roll, softly flirts
Quietly, silently, it always works
Groundhog Day that’s the worst,
Where’s the breaker to dive under it all
Every now and then a Tempest is called for
A heavenly thunderous squall
Just to shake it up
Move through the strung out long day pall
Cover his mirror with her fog and all
All the while
He’s talking it up, little work day dramas
Meetings minute cutlass pen thrust
Business as usual, balls to bust
Still underneath it all he’s thinking the stories frame by frame
She whispers out of nowhere ethereal in his brain,
“The best story is yet to arrive, it’s only the middle of the day…
maybe some gold glitter, a Llama and a Toucan that sashays?”
Empath on his knees by midnight
He’s writing melancholic love songs
The words are tight, verses short
Not long, he’s thinking Turtle Doves and short skirts
That won’t work…
scrawls it out, writing’s gone with the wind,
The best words for the story don’t take too long
He listens to some music, thinks of her and sings a new song.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Dreams flourish dripping words
black on white her familiar screen
pounding faster like raging horses hooves and heart beats
bleed vibrant colors mystic legions of wars and lovers
a foreign sovereignty her mind and wily covers her pageantry
Her eyes the windows of her world
Wings beating flying free
Cages broken, horses hooves hearts racing
She follows him on another shore a dream by sea
Praying prophecies
Empath on her knees
Two very different minds
Free to be
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
Music/ Paolo Conte, "Sparring Partner"
https://youtu.be/tzjdY5rmpCA
No, I can't be swept
in the rush of things,
I control my urge...
until it's clear to me
that you want me;
doubts never surge,
if being bond by true vows
that are stronger than hugs!
I have bought a thousand of pretty roses
and spread the petals on the bed where we slept,
you surrendered to my kisses and trembled a lot:
if it wasn't Heaven, it surely was pure bliss!
I can't be swept in the rush of things,
I like watching the aurora
after midnight and hug Laura;
can she ever betray my unbreakable trust?
Be faithful, be honest, show joyful feelings;
try your best to make it last!
An improvised passion can make for a perfect
Valentine's night, whenever our hands touch;
that's the exact moment when we suddenly hush,
then we hop in bed and become Romeo and Juliet!
No, I can't be swept
in the rush of things,
feel satisfied, not fulfilled and alone;
nobody's fate is set in stone,
somehow, we can change it
and live life according to our needs!
Wet evening
Teary skyfall;
Drenching dreams
~~~~~~~~~
Cold draughts
Thunder speaks loud;
Lightning flash
~~~~~~~~~
Watery sneeze
Running nose;
Fuzzy feeling
~~~~~~~~~
Trip getaway
Somewhere far;
Lovely reunion
~~~~~~~~~
Home-cooked food
Food for the soul;
Happy meal here
~~~~~~~~~
Lovers stare
Succinct delight;
Lovely conversations
~~~~~~~~~
Words absent
Eye to eye;
Sparkling touch
~~~~~~~~~
Big win here
Magical moods;
Boundless abundance
~~~~~~~~~
Dark skyline
Midnight rain;
Weary dreams
~~~~~~~~~
Blurry buzz
Curious craze;
Surprise sifts
~~~~~~~~~
Domestic bliss
Each day a treat;
Smiles turn up
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo rustle
Rainy outreach;
Lightning dazzle
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
23 October 2016
Singapore
Paper Airplanes
I made paper airplanes decades ago
One super creation I named Zoomo
Once my Zoomo and I took off in flight
Lift off was on the first stroke of midnight.
I was the pilot and what fun we had
If the folks had seen us they'd have gone mad
Freedom's elating, no hullabaloo
Able to do all things you wish to do.
First stop just had to be a moon landing
Though the surface was not fit for standing
The moon said that he was made of soft cheese
If we weren't careful we'd sink in with ease.
So we took off to meet Venus the star
She was so beauteous it was bizarre
Her hair was a stunning shade of bright gold
And many stories from the past she told.
She told of her romance with Adonis
A hunter to whom marriage was promised
But by a wild pig he was killed outright
Now she rules o'er love and beauty by night.
Then we zoomed higher and higher up sky
And heard angels singing as we flew by
Zoomo said we were close to paradise
So I then u-turned our speedy device.
Realising soon day would be dawning
And had to fly back home before morning
We arrived safely and I got in bed
Just as mother said "wake up sleepy head.”
*+*+*
14th August 2022
*+*
The Light Of Diana
The darkness of the midnight sky
A blessing of the gracious gods of Olympus
The most holy Diana travels across the sky in a glittering chariot
The waning crescent moon, a slight sliver of Diana’s shield, shows her protecting bow
Keeping the innocent safe for the moment when Venus can bless their being
She keeps safe the hearts of women who do not wish to be loved
Her light keeps the spirited god Cupid at bay until the desire for love proves itself
As she travels lovers look up making wishes to her and they see her being
She leaves sparking jewels in her wake for those wishes are to be granted
Red and blue and white they twinkle in the blackness of nothingness
However, I, a mere mortal is the most grateful to the night’s dim light
It is by Diana’s light that I look at your flawless beauty
Watch you as you sleep with dreams that make you smile as no person can
She is the one who keeps your tears away while allowing mine to flow
When Diana travels far beyond the distant horizon and Apollo rises in the east
For a pair of fortnight I shall fade back into the world where you and I would never meet
I will fade back and wait until Diana once again shows her light
Until I can again see your beauty in her silvery light and I shall feel a love which cannot be returned
Such is the blessing and the curse of Diana and her magical light
I stand at the bank of the river
where my father used to come,
Twilight brings him here,
He stands and watches,
Lost in the ambience,
Embraced by a presence,
He didn’t bother if I stared at him,
Or if I was engulfed with fear,
It was a refreshing time for him,
He beamed with an unusual light,
Endowed with a rare sight,
He always left inspired,
Armoured for the treasure he aspired.
I stand at the bank of the river
where my father’s feet stood in days gone past,
Where he stood like a mast,
Twilight chauffeurs me here,
I’m eased off the day's travails,
complexities and perplexities,
Hope swallows my unanswered questions,
I’m strengthened for the miles ahead,
Even though gloom still has its bed.
I stand at the bank of the river
where my father was inspired to write,
Where he was motivated to stand and fight,
All that saddled and perplexed,
He sojourned, conquered and returned,
Until the last mile.
I stand at the bank of the river
where my inspiration raptures from the rind,
I’m invigorated to find,
All my heart desires,
All mind aspires.
I stand at the bank of the river
where my midnight brings no fever.
March 20, 2023.
those left-over leaves
turning as rinds of unchanging
lemon seeds: they must have bathed
the earth’s luminous wonders
like an orchard radiant in
fields of holy pilgrimage,
their veins drop without blame
or flavor of pity as more new
sprouts linger on trunks yellowed
by the kiss of time's seasons,
as birth is to death; laughter to tears
flesh feeding on naked
salty moss leaning on baptismal
roots soaked with a maddened desire
to wake, wake the ever flowing
of midnight birds...for to every
dream , demise heaves a season
~
Regina Riddle's Bible Contest
From Ecclesiastes 3 King James Version (KJV)
3: To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
Additional Verses
2: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant,
and a time to pluck up that which is planted
11: He hath made every thing beautiful in his time:
also he hath set the world in their heart, so that
no man can find out the work that God maketh
from the beginning to the end.
by nette onclaud, new poem
When you are under a full moon,
In the high midnight noon,
before the vastness of a village green field,
The air is still, a sudden chill,
and then you began to feel
“the silence”, all around you trill.
She is silent like that.
She is silent like the love-struck
staring at the stars in the sleeping city.
She is silent like the poet
about to recite his last elegy.
She is silent like the girl
opening her window to the dawn.
She is silent like the moment
for no reason we feel so alone.
So whenever I am near,
I touch the silence, which became so dear,
I seem to understand, but sadly not quite I fear!
so I softly utter,
Yes my Love! Silence is much Better.
And then sometimes
when she wears white, She is radiant as ever.
But the radiant words that I long for,
it is not allowed for me to desire.
Her hair dance dark & deep, curve & sway,
A peaceful breeze through the deep quiet forest.
Some pure moments the sun glistens through trees.
Thinks the traveler. “It is the place, I can take some rest”.
Should she ever tell, or be silent forever?
“Did she leave all her conversations behind her?”
Hurts of the past perhaps made us more of a stranger.
Then I console my heart of a futile searcher,
“If she thinks silence is golden! Then her silence is much better.”
(April 11, 2007)
Sergeant Joe, newly returned
From war of the coast,
has been lately saddled with the weight of
Love and whispers of devotion from Helen.
A smooth and silent talker,
her voice rushes at the racing, spinning wind forming
behind his keen ears, stroking them for resilient warmth.
And his nerves all stand,
Like the soldiers he met in the war.
Midnight, she reaches for the balm
in the old and wizened, soot-black coconut shell.
Accompanied by a tongue of fire the size of a
wrestler’s right thumb,
whose glow reveals the seated state of
the sergeant’s dilated eyes,
she gets to the portals of his thumping heart.
Night-drums, though placid, throb from the hollow,
hallowed chambers of a deep occult night.
They cling to each other,
Sergeant Joe and Helen,
refurbishing the scattered war-torn leaves that had
hidden the treasures the village once knew, once shielded,
from low-flapping hawks,
seeking desperately the arrival of the mighty African night rain,
nourishing deluge,
whose thick, flooding spikes deaden the sound of intruders when
midnights wince repeatedly with strong delight —
like the pummelled body of a warring legend massaged softly
with camwood.
It started with a handshake,
then a hug, and then a smile;
We’d never even met before,
and still I felt it all the while.
I felt the silence breaking
and the wall start coming down,
and soon I’d trade my aching
for a renaissance fair crown.
We walked around til midnight
in an unfamiliar place,
The city streets in Sweden paled
each time I saw your face.
The turns we took would lead us back
eventually, we knew,
but I was blind to Stockholm
for in Stockholm I met you.
The streetlights lit the way
for all our midnight wandering,
though the night was cold and calm
and though each person’s sondering
would normally call out to me,
for stories there to write,
the only thing I cared for then
was your face’s shining light.
I once thought it was pointless
to wish and hope and dream.
I thought the stars had shone their last;
there were no more, it seemed.
I was misled, I know that now,
for brighter stars I see.
Yet the brightest star is mine,
for in Stockholm he met me.
Afghanistan, South Africa,
Kuwait and Mexico,
Romania and Canada,
(and many more, you know)
I’ve been all over everywhere
and done what there’s to do.
But none compare to Stockholm,
for that’s where I met you.