Long Monochrome Poems
Long Monochrome Poems. Below are the most popular long Monochrome by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monochrome poems by poem length and keyword.
Fury for the masses
neon pulses bleed into the damp air
screens flicker
frantic fireflies
spitting chaos
into living rooms, void!
Each pixel is a distant mind bomb
echoes of sirens shatter the night.
Feel the heart of asphalt jungles
where skyscrapers are tombstones
for dreams buried in hashtags.
Shadows reach, hungry n restless
feasting on the memories of despair.
A parade of facades
ghosts behind the glass
navigating a labyrinth of noise
thick as smoke.
Scroll past the bloodied headlines
weaving threads of dread through
the fabric of the mundane
where hearts race with every ping
each notification a flicker of the end…
Fury for the masses…
the knife's edge, we walk,
bound to a world unraveling.
Colors bleed monochrome
as love is reduced to static n ashes, tears
like ink wells in vast spaces
words caught in a feedback loop.
Desperate are voices
muffle the roar
of an endless stream
the tide of information
crashing against the shores of sanity.
A cacophony of a Thousand Lives
fury for the masses...
The night whispers
a lullaby of loss
a haunting refrain.
The fragility in the chaos
a symphony of fury…
Fury for the masses.
And beneath the glossy façade
light flickers, a candle in the storm
fighting the shadows, reminding no one!
The roar and the rage
a cry for the masses ?
in the silence of our reckoning..
Fury for the masses!
Lipogram Sonnet 4-12-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spring Sonnet
Spring bursts out from winter’s silent cocoon,
Fluttering luminescence on new wings,
Freed up from the midnight’s monochrome womb
Silk ribbons of ice melt into wellsprings.
Thin borderlines edged in dull grey on white,
Feeling the tickle of divine kisses,
Explode in hues borrowed from the first light,
Colors flit over icy snow with bliss.
Gliding on the virgin winds’ new story
Neon wings trickle colors on flowers
In purple tendrils of yellow glory,
From solstice sleep life returns in showers.
Young springtime emerges, from restive sleep,
Rising with morning - promises to keep.
the light chiffon veneers of winter's face
slow-deliquesce as rangy shadows wane
soft gossamer as whitened Guipure lace
melts running to the rills with April's rain
a dulcet strain of spring tide on the wing
each songbird chants a serenade to woo
the passions that a warmer air can bring
and nature's resurrection thru-and-thru
a world of monochrome now comes alive
so blossoming with promise and with life
the world of bursting color now to thrive
all water, land and air with movement rife
now mystery and romance start their call
for spring is summer's harbinger ... of all.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "April 2019 Premiere 6, Up To A Max Of 14 Lines" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Spring Sonnet" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Spring Is In The Air" Poetry Contest, Emile Pinet, Judge & Sponsor.
Blurry e-motion
Waiting on words;
Upheaval swirls
Meal time posture
Food court harvest;
Same old stuff
Chinatown fringe
Walkabout excursion;
Hot humid weather chokes
Word for word jazz
Relevance juxtaposed;
Poignant verse strains
Book store punctuates
Tucked in a corner;
Niched following
Verse genres ply
Moods and variations;
Starling change surprise
Clap books monochrome
Small print runs;
Modest readership circle
Works on offer
Book bargains tease;
Second-hand relevance
Simple repast
Eat when hungry;
Flexible meal duration
Migraine fatigue hits
Siesta to recharge;
Stop gap measure
Cash and carry
Shopping trip downtown;
Happy getaway
Tired eyes droop
Glare of noon day sun;
Sudden shower wets
Casual visitors
Impromptu discourse;
Catchup chit-chat
So much to say
Hourglass reprieve;
Abruptly cut short
Conversations hurl
Mid-afternoon visit;
Twenty years backlog squeezed
We style a smile
Catch-up with past wit;
Great mileage in minutes
Joy in swift passage
Touching bases now;
Moments in retreat
Leon Enriquez
13 June 2014
Singapore
She’d kept the pewter dusted and displayed
since 1969.
A verdigris had leached out of the urn nevertheless.
She had been hard on him, had forgiven little,
but felt much closer now.
The television became a corner coffin,
its screen a penumbra she often spoke to.
She had interred it in 1974 after Nixon left office
“Disgraceful.” She had said both to his ashes,
and the ancient T.V. set.
A part of her husband remained to dwell with her,
the homunculus felt like a much-chewed jawbone
rattling in the urn.
She began to dream.
His tweed suit walked from its closest,
to make love to her,
sleeves caressed sensitive pockets.
When she awoke, she smelled of mothballs,
Brylcreem and Old Spice.
The television came to life.
the blue monochrome face of Nixon appearing,
he was crying.
his permanent five o’clock shadow damp with tears.
“Sorry Mabel.” He spoke.
“You should be.” She retorted hotly,
yet her heart skipped a beat as the screen died.
She was troubled.
She broke the glass front of the TV
placing her husband's urn within it.
The urn grew greener as if it were full of Ohio River water.
She saw herself as a young girl swimming
in a river as refreshing as a lime phosphate.
The urn glimmered as new images surfaced,
a tenderness gnawed at her.
Her late spouse teased her with fingers
plucked from her own lap.
He brushed her lips with threads of gray.
Her bitterness toward him
become a speck she kept in a jar of Pond’s facial cream.
“Just in case,” she thought.
After scary Halloween and its ghoulish pranks
November dawns with all-saint’s and all soul’s day
Carrying a pious note in the balmy wind
Along with the haunting memories of our dear departed
November parades herself in a riot of colors
The trees get dressed in robes of gold
The earth flames in scintillating autumnal glaze
Unique is the season with no other to rival
But brief is the tantalizing beauty of the land
On misty mornings, the aureate leaves burdened with settling dew,
Shiver in the wind n' cold and tumble down
As they fall one by one, I hear a silent melancholy note
The pain of parting connections from their mother trees
November is also the season of a plentiful harvest
The granaries are filled with stored corn and maize
People thus enjoy the fruits of their labor
The hard-earned dividend of their yearlong sweat
Children and adults go for apple picking
And come back home with baskets full
On trees hang the opulence of golden pears
Nesting sweetness beneath their crunchy rind
To far off places, fly the feathered folks
Beasts retire to their burrows and sheltered dens
Soon the sun will go on a long vacation
There will scarcely be a sunbeam brightening the land
And winter waits impatient for its icy cold embrace
Thus, November is a month of transition-
From the feast of colors to the monochrome of white
From the bright sunny days to the greying cloudy sky
From vibrant enterprise to the torpor of inactivity
From death and decay to the hopes of resurrection
November.6.2022
~ Placed Eight~
November Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh
The satin blanket of night
With it's silky silence
Wrapping whispers around
My head
Tucking in my dreams
Clicking out the light
Of reality
To reveal the depth of desire
The soon to be forgotten future
Cosy with the pervasive past
In the twisted landscape
Of perception
Where unicorns dance
Where unseen monsters lurk
A place where lost love blossoms
And fears manifest
Under the rainbow of dreamland
Real people escape
Until the monochrome blue
Bleeds back into the bedroom
The beautiful blanket
Of comfort becomes
The shadowy shroud of silence
For the midnight meandering heart
Alabaster snowflakes scattered over
Brindled patches of frozen forest floor
Cover Autumn's fragmented tapestry.
December fluffs up Winter's white duvet,
Eager to embrace the bitter cold and
Fierce winds, snug in a thick blanket of snow.
Gone are the crinkled crimson and gold leaves,
Hidden under a glistening coat, an
Icy glaze that sparkles like diamond dust.
Jesus, it's said, was born in December,
Kindling the celebration of Christmas.
Long nights and short days bring families close,
Marking this as a festive time of year.
Night skies are encrusted with twinkling stars
Offset by the deep ebony of space.
Pines and cedars remain green year-round, so
Quail and Partridge shelter in their branches.
Ravens caw, illustrating the profound
Starkness of Nature's hypnotic beauty,
They feel compelled to give voice to their awe.
Under crystalline skies of cackling blue,
Vistas of evergreen contrast with the
Washed-out monochrome landscape and faded
Xerox copies of an elapsed moment.
Yet, such pristineness is what fuels our
Zeal, to confront Winter on Her own terms.
Could you be surrounded by a million faces,
Yet see nothing, just masses and beams?
Watch them laugh, smile and be, from the shadows.
While you cringe with envy.
Tracing their every move.
The curve of their lips in glee.
The shadows cast in the depths of amber,black,brown,grey and green.
Such reckless emotion, so easily revealed.
It calls to you, mockingly.
Unaffected, not tempted, you walk away.
The warmth of words and hearty gleams
Could call for an eternity but it wouldn't mean a thing, not to you.
Not to a heart made of steel.
As the seasons pass,
The White, orange and yellow scream
That hardly ever matters to someone who can see only black.
Living the monochrome dream.
Should you walk a path, as a lonely being.
A lovely flower laced road
With rose beds and lily baths, splashes of colour and purity.
All crumbling as you breathe.
For nothing remains in the beauty of a flower once it rots, dies and no longer breathes.
Like a body stripped of it's soul
Wandering, with no purpose
Forever, only watching, never to touch or to feel.
I once was full of colour
Full of life, colour and free
But my mind stole that away
And left me to watch it float by like a dream.
Finally dying, finally free.
As a parting gift would you give me what I need?
Would you trade places with me?
So finally, I could feel.
Amanda Miller
Form:
O lady, banish my monochrome days
and weave your coppery threads into
a dim red florescence of coyote words;
There you stand draped in beige chiffon
against preternatural piety of a striptease sea
continuously playing with Prussian blue pastels.
O lady, gallantly unleash your plump cherubs
and licentious cats with that timeless witchery
of a vanilla Guerlain perfume dart;
Throw a dusty rain-soaked rose, Madame Pompadour;
I am flying into another sugary abyss of setting suns
and Fragonard silks of flickering coral.
Is it the fighting of heavenly dragons? Is it Boucher's
brushstrokes that bring us April showers
and the music of irises and champagne pearls?