Long Mimosa Poems
Long Mimosa Poems. Below are the most popular long Mimosa by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mimosa poems by poem length and keyword.
Mary Fletcher was prime minister in olde England, like fondest memory,
Of days when the twilight stood still, with silver moon, floating on sea.
Mary Fletcher was capable and caring, to the country's great benefit;
Like spring rains of green benevolence, trailing the fragrant evidence.
Andrew was Mary's loving husband. Their lives were so happy together!
Like allurng, violet future, that recalls moments in lush, green heather.
Scarlet summer was all in a fever, as faceted friends called, flustered;
Passing fields of fabled enchantment, where silky, lilac wind muttered.
Faces of family came in dreams, and in person, on the Fridays of fairs;
Full of food, games and fun activities, like colored, hopscotch squares.
Mary lived in the house of butterflies, forever peeking at the windows;
Offering the frequent flashes of color, like every shade of the primrose.
Saturdays wore its smiles, on Mary's street of pretty robins screeching;
Where blue dragonflies were dancing, and chirpy crickets had meetings.
Owls stared wide-eyed fascination, as neighbors came, one with night;
In the company of nostalgic, new moon, like velvet under the spotlight.
'Mangave mission to Mars' lifted off, when the 'corpse flowers' lay dying;
And 'grow anywhere' trees sprang hither and yon, without halfway trying.
During storms of 'dahlias electric flash,' or dark nights of 'showy lanterns,'
'Rose feather' blooms took the spotlight, while secrets hid in blue caverns.
As Andrew was crossing a bridge one sunny day, a large chunk of it fell,
Breaking the car's blue windshield! How he escaped harm, none can tell.
Andrew sent Mary an emergency message, apprising her of grave danger;
And she notified the right departments, within moments. Anxiety changer!
The bridge was capably repaired, due to the action of Andrew's first lady;
Like midnight of mimosa fragrance, giving raptures to areas grown shady!
'London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lady.
Build It Up With Bricks of Shaw,
Bricks So Sure,
Bricks So Sure,
Build It Up With Bricks of Shaw,
My Fair Lady.
It Will Stand For Ever More,
Ever More,
Ever More,
It Will Stand For Ever More,
My Fair Lady.'
Everyone called Joanna Wilde, Joanie, like an abbreviated crescent moon,
Of which she was much enamored, with its silky, maroon darkness tunes.
Pert Joanie was a young night owl, loving lone whip-poor-wills, singing,
And bewitching midnight stars of glitter, and a calm silence, for thinking.
Joanie was a successful librarian, and always dreamed of advancement;
And having the morning shift, she worked hard for career enhancement.
On weekends, Joanie and fatigued friends, had fun days in fresh flowers,
Below feathery clouds floating far, in warm honeyed sun, of tonic powers.
Sunshine fever fetched family and kisses, when flowers feigned fainting,
'Ere purple finches stood still at noon, in jade scenes, like fine paintings.
Joanie lived in the house of starry eclipse, of dusk and moon hiding sun;
The red, gold and purple not much missed, afore a rare night was done.
Sweet sounds and scents traveled far, along her street of silver willows.
And minty butterflies kept so busy, as sunbeams slept, on cloud pillows.
Neighbors brought their needlepoint, with news, on nice, nostalgic eves;
For nothing's as neat as nonstop conversation, like a chattering of leaves!
'Cuckoo' flowers denoted colorful hours, as 'busy Lizzy' steadily bloomed;
While mimosa blossoms wore lush silk in sun, in the teal world, perfumed.
Purple bleeding hearts mourned sunset, in the summer of vibrant sparkles.
Red carnations shone as if for queenly coronation, awash in gold marvels.
Joanie was finally up for promotion. That set her ruby heart to dreaming;
But, working nights, she suffered burnout, like grape sun, when scheming.
Her habits had to change-and soon! Like 12 hours spent amidst a lily moon.
She'd hence be a night owl only rarely; like a sable nightingale's new tune!
'Birds sing in the morn
To tell us to rise,
And he who sleeps late
Will never be wise.
For early to bed
And early to rise
Is the way to be healthy
And wealthy and wise.'
It all worked out for the best, to the pride and pleasure of Joanie's family;
Who loved her enough to be a part of, every heartache and fuchsia victory!
My heart is like anvil swinging on a fishing string
My heart is like a song bird without it's vocals flying on broken wings
My heart is like a deep ocean the deeper you go the darker it gets
My heart is like a bad memory everyone wants to forget
My heart is like a hollow tunnel filled with emptiness
My heart is a like woman scorn full of resentfulness
My heart is like a frosted flower on a freezing winters night
begging to be heated by the suns early morning light
beckoning the arrival of a withered and early death
my heart is like a knight without his armor facing the dragon's breath
My heart is like an open book for all to turn it's pages wide
My heart is like the ocean's salty waters from the waves that subside
My heart is like a broken poem lost in rhythm lost in rhyme
My heart is like a broken clock without the hands to foretell the time
My heart is like a blind man who always likes to stare
My heart is like a stunt man who gives up on the dare
My heart is like tinted windows where the sun has no glare
My heart is like a hospital without the patient care
My heart is like the mimosa plant sensitive to the touch
My heart is like a standard car without the pedal clutch
My heart is like the cuddle fish that changes it's disguise
My heart is like a question asked but no answer is replied
My heart is like my tears refusing to fall from my eye
My heart is like no constellations embracing the darkened sky
My heart is like the kool-aid with out the sugar in the mix
My heart is like a crack-head on the corner without his daily fix
My heart is like the entertainer without any fans
My heart is like the farmer without any land
My heart is just like this poem it just doesnt make any sense
why did i even write the pointless poem in 1st person present tense???????
I used to be a just and upright man
And talk spade to spade to the ills of the world
Then I met with a sage and he said
The policy eye for an eye would make this world blind
I thought he was right and I started seeing honour
In the hearts in my fellow human being
And sought peace at any price
And I was going on smoothly without having any problem
Days passed but in wonder I saw the violence is increasing all over the around
The man in parole commits crime again against humanity
The juvenile in bail after rehabilitation
Raped and murdered three young women one in a park other two in a beach
The nations signed an agreement of peace
Sprung from nowhere to engage again in brutal war
Desperately I went into deep thought
And find this so called sage a lunatic for misleading the world
With his half baked truth which is more dangerous than the full baked truth
I was frustrated and withdrawn like sail from all outdoor activities
And felt apologetic for being in the group of lunatics
I became cool, calm and silent
And pulled my heart like an umbrella, closed my eyes like mimosa
My life went on like a wilted flower
Yet I thought this kind of life was better than being lunatic
And I started pretending that nothing was happening around me
Better to say that I refused to see what was going on around me
But within no time I found I was terribly wrong
As I ended up in the bunch of hypocrites
Still this is not good enough for the house I live in
This world cannot be belong to either troops
This world must belong to me
Must belong to a man who sees not with one eye one color
And talks spade to spade against all the ills of the world
To make things squire off
I am again back on the right track, a man, just and upright.
“Philosykos”
Coerced I was enticed to enter their incohesive world
my mind bleeds like black currents aross the water-colour page
forming strange language electric messages l’eau papier imprints uncompleted
sparks form and burn through the walls of churlish Eden to the outer existence
the inner world of freedom, naked and open, I’ve become Philosykos
I strip the bark down
love notes written
kisses tasting like Eden’s sweetest
hand-fed mindless figs with mercy
teasing juicy red apples
undressed like an envelope
naked and open
Candide Diderot. ‘25
“In Greek, "Philosykos" translates to "friend of the fig tree". This name is derived from the Greek words "philos", meaning friend, and "sykon", meaning fig.”
“As ink soaks into a sheet of white paper, shadows emerge. Worlds are invented. L'Eau Papier celebrates the power of the imagination – that moment, suspended in time, when ink, paper and the hand become one. In L'Eau Papier, white musks are delicately faceted by an accord of rice steam, evoking the grain of the paper. To these are added luminous notes of mimosa, while a backdrop of blonde wood tones grounds L'Eau Papier in the material itself.”
"Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden"
Wenzel Peter, (Karlsbad 1745 - Rome 1829), oil on canvas, Vatican Museums
"The Garden of Eden with the Fall of Man or The Earthly Paradise with the Fall of Adam and Eve"
Peter Paul Rubens, Jan Brueghel the Elder (1615), oil on panel,
Mauritshuis, The Hague
I had a glistening dream when I was young
Bright as an orange on October tree
Near as the horizon on the rim of the sea
Sweet as mango sweating in the grass
Clear as the crystal of the hour glass
I had a dream when I was young
Caught in the web of my forerunners' vision
Not even in sleep could I fall into oblivion
I shew the world my dream yesterday
Let them touched it
My coat of many colors leaking through their hands
My map of El Dorado across the pearly sands
They touched my mimosa, touched my goatskin
Getting ready in the sun to become my drum
All I would sing is another song of me
Of ancient cadence, rhyming with theirs my beauty
And all the while I did not know
I should have asked them how to climb ladders
With my greasy appendages
They covered me with the oil of their gladness
Snickering at my feathers clammy with expectations
I, poor Icarus, shackled in my father's genius
To cheat the minotaur and melt in the sun
Life is not a struggle to understand our dreams
It is for a longing to escape that the heart screams
And yet my dream keep hanging on
Even when the big fish swallowed me
Even when I cried fruitlessly
Under the calabash tree, my dream is young
And I growing old, must follow it still
I have known adventures following that star.
Now the dream has me
Yearning for the rainbow with my pot of gold
We cannot journey unless we believe, no one returns
From yesterday, tomorrow in forever churns.
| I Dream Poetry in Darkness and Light |
Unbroken, my light rises like deep alluvion of sweet rivulets,
Craving passions and tragedies like written poetries of Juliet.
In softly spoken words I quell, of streamed sheen of sunbeams and spells.
Where worlds of fallen reality and fantasy live in parallel.
Playing with dreams and it's ruinous luminosity,
Through my skin, I feel its pale softness glow.
For, my ferocious heart beats for disaster and catastrophe.
Between the beginning of dawn and it's closing dusk evenings.
Reaching with ardor towards it's warmth,
The bitter transparent wind on my lips, I kiss.
Nevertheless, the dark reminds to hide all my mess.
But, this febricity itch with within my hidden fears,
Recoils and quivers like a mournful Mimosa.
Hiding under midnight treacherous treasuries but, I falter closer.
Let me lay in darkness; between these verses.
Let all hatred consume me with unbearable curses.
Let me die within these spiralling pages and vortex verses.
But, the scintillant light lends it's chi,
reminding my lungs; inhale deep; exhale free,
Like a pretentious vapour; I keep climbing.
My senses swell; atmospheric rising with spring tides fluorescent rhymings.
I move through like osmotic whispers; jolting with winged feathers of sweetened writings.
Because, I dream poetry in darkness and light.
And mourn with unspoken words; simultaneously, day and night.
SNOW DANCER
I am amazed at switch the goods
Before so apostolic
And now so different
To one’s mind.
Are you, my milk tooth
A passion-flower nun
Or an old maid
Married with god
With might & main?
Are you making use of decoy
“Snow Dancer”
As an appropriated graphic
Without mincing words
As other persons do?
Show Dancer
You’re a Sweet Nothing
A Cold Nothing
As the Mildewed Show
But pretty when the Earth
Is in White¡
I remember that when snowing
It was to the liking
of You Girlfriend & Me
To piss on the Snow
And to do cartoons, ha, ha.
You draped with my Dick
And me with Your Tongue-lips.
And we together singing
laughing
Dancing, singing
All around:
“Snow Dancer
Is the same to say
“Peace is a Piss””.
Do you know
Do You see:
I like Women too much, Mimosa
More than another Cheeky-Monkey
Of our Specie.
Yr wasp’ nest
Make me to take flowers
And have one’s fling.
I taste Your female ******
Melting into snowing tears.
To kiss the Angel’ s Lips
Is my Eucharistic
Made to measure.
But now, oh¡ oh dear¡ poor me¡
My touched-balls
Doctor Uric
Says that for the blame of age
I have to do
An operation for prostate
And just in due curse
I’ll don’t be able
To bring to light
My brilliant point
Measured one’s length:
It will break
The liquorice root
The sweet breads.
But yet, still
Being so ****ed
I’ll see how well
You dance in the snow
My Snow Dancer.
Have they ever asked themselves
what's the purpose of this life;
and why we are born of a mother
who leads us to a quiter shore?
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
questioning the diffidence of the eartly man!
Have they ever seen showers feed
the blossoms of a peach tree?...
Warm raindrops that Nature offers
to magnify the grandness of flowers!
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
seeing beauty when all ignore surprise!
Have they ever seen the majestic pine trees sway,
almost piercing the wandering clouds of color rose...
drifting towards the lustrous sunset of May;
can a strayed soul obtain redemption with deep-felt remorse?
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
contemplating creation with the purest feeling!
Have the ever stopped along the roads
swarmed with mimosa and jasmine and inhale
the fragrance of their tiny flowers,
being totally inhabriated by their smell?
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
thrilled by the natural state of the wild!
Have they ever seen those cities made of concrete,
where the errants struggle to breath,
and sunlight is as rare as an uninvited sunset;
there the church bells toll in extreme heat!
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
seeking,but not finding spirituality of any kind!
Testing The Sun
Its about to happen
You can feel it
There’s a bursting scented vibrancy
Lingering
Happening
Almost
Ready
A slow stretching yawn reverberates
It dissipates and grows
Permeates
Percolates
Rushes outward
But
Waits
Sleepily cracking an eye
It peers around
Secretly shaking off blankets
Dabbles a toe in the air
Testing the sun
If you wait, listen to the stillness
You can hear rising sap
Drawing deep upward to buds
Which seem to scream a new green
And yearn for the moment of leaves
The colours are mixing
Designing chemicals of fluorescence
Predicting their flourishes of blooming petals
Teasing
Niggling
At the edges of their swelling
And somnolent slumbery
Deliberating
On seconds
They
A – C – H – E
In yellow Mimosa puffs
Already they are dreaming
Caught between the spurt of seed
Dreaming of splashes fecundate
And the tiny feet of insects
The great call of their rainbow hues
Is ready to set a fire
In time to stride in their glory
Through to summer
But
Wait
The tiny buds have yet to taste
A drop of rain
And yet to bask for at least a day
In golden heat
Precipitates
Perambulates
Perchance to ponder
Proliferates
Languid time
Wakes
Timeless
Spring