Long Mona Poems
Long Mona Poems. Below are the most popular long Mona by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mona poems by poem length and keyword.
Lost love once painted me as a blurred piece of art,
but I'd dry my teary eyes and agree to pose again
if you can promise that you'll never break my heart.
From the thralls of love, I have sworn to abstain,
although the thought leaves me filled with doubt,
but I'd dry my teary eyes and agree to pose again.
Perhaps the time has come to end love's drought,
then heartache will be nothing but a faded memory,
although the thought leaves me filled with doubt.
From misery and loneliness, I wish to be set free.
Paint a portrait of me, wearing a contented smile,
then heartache will be nothing but a faded memory.
Like 'The Mona Lisa,' portray me in da Vinci's style.
Giving love another chance, I'd bravely do for you.
Paint a portrait of me, wearing a contented smile.
Brush me as a woman but not in woeful hues of blue.
Lost love once painted me as a blurred piece of art.
Giving love another chance, I'd bravely do for you
if you can promise that you'll never break my heart.
April 8, 2022
An Original Terzanelle Contest
Sponsored by Milt Hankins
Before he could draw his mind
da Vinci made cathedrals with his fingers.
We once built an adobe hut
in New Mexico,
I was surprised how alike it was
to a poem taking shape.
When it was done, we pressed our hands
and fingers into the still wet mud walls.
The last rays of the evening sun
turned those hand-prints into gilded gold.
It was then that we knew we were Adam and Eve
and there was nothing yet but us
until the world would arrive
like an old painting out of nowhere.
A world bloodstained and crazy enough
to build helicopters or a Mona Lisa,
a bowl of fruit, or an adobe house in the desert.
That world had countless fingers
shaped from pure energy.
Together we formed a God
out of sticks and stones,
a rough idol that was holy for a while.
We kept it on a shelf above a small fireplace.
Often the flickering shadows of the flames
resembled the nimble fingers of an artist
at work.
Musings of Love in Mithila’s Thoughts
In weary times, when ebbing tides leave hearts forlorn,
I yearn to cradle dreams alive,
In the deep waters of your chest.
When pain engulfs my restless nights,
In the hollow silence of ribs that ache,
I long to wrap myself tight
In the tender weave of woollen threads,
The soft edge of warmth near your breast.
When despair’s heavy breath
Leaves me gasping, lost, undone,
I dream of tending my lips in bloom
Within the curve of your Mona Lisa smile.
How does one endure the solitude
Of loveless skies on a Nilgiri peak?
Even in the shadow of failures near you,
My thoughts find joy, a lavish indulgence,
Amid the sweat of life's relentless hours.
No future, no past
Only a ruinous, misplaced abode remains.
Half a century has drifted by,
Yet I yearn to lose myself in you,
On moonlit nights of passion's bloom.
Among shattered mirrors of neglect,
Where broken memories lie naked and bare,
Still, I wish to drown in your embrace,
Surrendering to desire’s sweet enchantment.
Breathlessly, we shall become
Two souls entangled, utterly alive.
Now, empty, I am a shadow adrift,
A spectre of sorrow amidst ebbing tides.
Yet within my chest, I nurture a river,
Flowing falls with your name
A restless stream, leaping through shores,
Swim across freedom’s span.
In every spring, you steal my heart,
A dreamer crafting skies anew,
You are a hidden flower of untamed grass,
Rooted deep in unseen soil.
The splendor of the blooming flower
on the lips of the unfurling bud
radiates glamour in the frame of charisma,
suspended on the wall.
I float in the air of fascination
to the magnetic meadow of Mona Lisa,
as the sensuous force enthralling,
unveils time-transcending beauty of woman.
Nothing lies between Eve and you,
when you’re in my vision suffused
with the radiance of rainbow allure,
shimmering with the enigmatic smile.
The spectacular still life icon,
created by the painter supreme,
activates the sense of awe in me
with the perpetual attraction.
The aura of exquisite brilliance exudes
in the masterpiece of superb living art.
The metaphor of her persistent appeal
defines women’s mesmeric magnificence.
____________
May 3, 2023
For A Brian Strand Premiere No, 1213 Contest
The Artist
I need a Muse.
Do you think it could be you?
Can you pick up a paint brush
And show me what you can do?
I need a painter of portraits;
To fill in the gaps inside my head.
I need a Goddess of Love,
To notice the stuff I write in my bed.
I need an Artist, who is simply magnificent,
A breath-taking vision, who is simply Heaven sent.
I need an Angel to paint me a Picasso,
Of my poetry in pieces, before I end up like Van Gogh.
Slightly impaired by deafness, I guess.
Going grey now; thank you stress.
Hi Mona, how’s Rembrandt?
He’s been seen drinking in a bar,
With somebody called Cezanne?
Call Michaelangelo; Donatello will have a plan.
Leonardo’s busy with his inventions,
But here comes Raphael.
Turtle Power! Hi Master Splinter.
Do you have your easel and paints ready
To see you through the winter?
Paint me a story
And I’ll write you a picture.
I think if the two of us worked together;
What I see, to you could become much clearer.
Are you sat there looking for some inspiration?
Then read one of my poems, sing one of my songs;
Maybe then you could paint our creation.
Maybe then I could write poetry about your art.
My vision brought to life,
With the gift of your care.
Paint a picture of us together,
So you will remember that I will always be there.
If you ever need some inspiration,
Just creep inside my mind for a little vacation;
From reality, from your personal Demons.
You will see we are all the same.
I have as many foibles as you do.
My heart belongs to any Woman who truly wants it.
But she hasn’t told me how she feels yet,
So I guess I can’t live without it.
But soon I will meet someone
And offer them my love.
Because an artist without inspiration,
Is like a poet who has never been in love.
Joyous tragedy! Shakespeare laughs
As he tears apart love, with just a couple of paragraphs.
Dead and gone! Not our fair Juliet.
If Romeo had just gone home instead;
He would have turned into a moody poet.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
She exudes a Mona Lisa like mystique
With a beauty beguiled by Medusa's locks
There is no smile of which to speak
That image the imagination can't block
She has closed the windows to her soul
With an expression of a broken heart
Yet she remains calm and in control
No tears of sorrow does she impart
Will she ever find love again
A sweet caress, or tender kiss
Or is it all just in vain
To find a love to give her bliss
I only wish I knew her name
So I could sing her a serenade
I'll call her Eva just the same
The beautiful girl with lovely braids.
--
8/4/17
funky burning smelling aromas with the sorrowful tears of yonder years, where the mountains overshadowed the chimney smoke rising on the streets and open planse
my Mona Lisa darling my passion inflamed and ignited by you smile.
I'm sorry for causing your tears to fall my heart is broken because of your sadness
my Naomi lover confidant friend and wife my forgiveness plea resounds across the seas my everything I need and more.my Naomi my breath of sunshine I'm sorry for breaking your heart and hearting the one that you love. the burning smelling aromas that fills the sky is my guide to healing this heart I'm sorry for breaking your heart my lovely Naomi my plea resounds across the Sky's I'm sorry for being a fool but I know we will be together again my lover confidant friend and wife through All our struggles our love overcame all obstacles. my love my heart is broken because of your sadness I cannot live without you please accept my plea and together we can fly with our love into realms. your tears has altered my vision. I love you my Naomi lover and wife
Its 2017 and my odyssey is far from begun.
Nearly ending every yearlings dwindling
Found above ground without Mona Lisa's lungs.
Without air is mortality.
Anything else is air mortality.
Painted on a picture is a mural on a bar stool room wall. Blank faces stare beneath the counter.
As I drink myself under the taker.
Only to arise with the power of ten thousand men—Truth be told, that’s about less than ten thousand women, infant and children.
Elderly has forgotten and our honest approach takes a step forward.
How is unthinkable. Why is unimaginable. Anger is intolerable garble and forgotten is an ancient power that is truly god-like...forgotten
1-20-2017
Have you ever seen a pair of Nine West Folowe Pumps in Red Blooms Floral - or ever held a feathery pair? They offer the pure pleasure of perfection.
You can see them popping up lately, in streetwear silhouette, matched with Dolce & Gabbana’s floral-print leggings, making a duet of blooms—petal upon petal, like a garden in motion, or paired with the new, high-waisted barrel leg jeans, lending a flash of elegance, a bright flourish against dull denim.
They’re visions, wrought as if by the hand of Michelangelo, who once from marble freed David’s pose, or da Vinci, whose brush summoned the Mona Lisa’s secret smile.
In form, they’re d’Orsay cut, sporting curves as deliberate as the Sistine vaults arch. The stiletto heels rise with the ambition of a cathedral’s spire - neither too proud nor too meek, but balanced, like the symmetry of a butterfly’s painted wings.
Upon their surface, blood red blooms unfurl - petals as vivid as spring’s first flush - each blossom a testament to an artist’s hand, in riots of color and romance that dance with the same spirit as a flowerbed at dawn.
No flaws mar their making: the stitchings are true, the fits precise—as if tailored by the muses themselves. Each pair offers its own unique foliations, bespeaking the freedom of a craftsman’s careful art.
Lastly, of course, they’re marvels of harmonious function, lightly cradling and lifting each step - comfort and glamour aren’t adversaries here, but partners in making each step a sonnet and each stride an artist's brushstroke.
Now, maybe you aren’t into fashion - perhaps you’re a male - oh, poor you, I’m sorry, but maybe, just maybe, in times of chaos, you long for the pleasure of inexpensive perfection.
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Songs for this:
Glamour Girl by Louie Austen
This is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
Whither now hunker-shins?
You have a sweet countenance,
a squat grace,
always middle-aged
on the still edge of a speeding sun.
Another swift day has begun
yet here you sit among the traffic
unflinching, a bold
bladder quelling gravity
with low-sprung shanks.
You deep-seated recliner,
standing-pat over upholstered hams.
A lumpy Mona Lisa,
with your come-hither girth
and just a thin membrane
between you and chaos.
Your skin an alien chiaroscuro,
a candle-lit atlas,
and in the cockle and crimp
of your glistening skin
a truculent contrarian gleams
beneath your world-dismissing
Buddha smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
redux