Long Murmur Poems
Long Murmur Poems. Below are the most popular long Murmur by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Murmur poems by poem length and keyword.
I lounge lazily on my deck chair
Up high in the spacious loggia
Loafing the time away, patient, waiting.....
The ocean ebbs into the small bay
As the sun sets far away over the horizon.
From below electric lights flash on
One by one and guitars are strummed.
The enticing aroma of paella wafts up
But I sit on, unmoved, immobile, waiting.
In the summer heat, I wait,
For the night to bring her near,
With a dance so sweet, she'll appear,
The summer heat is scarcely relieved
By the faint ocean breeze
The murmur of people reaches me.
She has arrived and the guitars sing.
So does my heart as I behold my wife.
Slowly she pirouettes on her dainty toes,
Her skirt resembling a veronica,
Like a cape that baits the bull
In a Spanish bloody arena.
But I sit on, unmoved, immobile, waiting.
I cannot see her red, red lips
That taste like lavender in height of summer,
I can just barely make out her silhouette,
Her sexual curves, her lithe footing,
Her inviting mien, her head held high,
a proud senora dancing just for love.
In the summer heat, I wait,
For the night to bring her near,
With a dance so sweet, she'll appear,
Soon the dance will end and I...
Why I just wait till she'll come to me,
In the dark cover of the night.
With a tequila and a night of love.
Under the mantle of night, a deep and melancholic murmur,
The calling of a sacred land, an echo from the depths of the soul,
People, understand, uncover plans cloaked in darkness,
Every word is a shiver of protest, a magic of unspoken truths,
Our land, with deep-rooted bonds, untainted and heartfelt farewell.
When the stars shine over the proud and ancient Carpathians,
A patriot, a Romanian, an eternal flame in the darkness of time,
In the shadowed Parliament, whispers of light are born,
Uncovering the hidden witchcraft of those who wish to break our sky.
They have no chance, as long as there is a Romanian heart beating for the land,
An ancient, eternal oath, rooted in our sacred place,
Their plans may be woven with slyness and madness,
But Romania, the land of unicorns and living waters, will not be defeated.
Orthodox Christians will gather under the sacred oak,
To defend the ancestral land from prophets and phantoms from afar,
There is no place for intrusions, no place for false heresy,
This is our soil, our rivers, the memories of our eternal life.
Romania will not bow under the hegemony of those who wish to engulf us,
For we know, we know what you prepare, but stay calm,
Under the starry sky of the Carpathians, Romanians will gather again,
Fighting for every meter of land, until the last breath.
Calling all those who have left, return home to the motherland,
Romania will remain united, under its shield of sun and moon,
It will not be shattered by anyone, defending its land with tenacity,
Because Romania, my dear ones, is ours, eternal and magical.
Let us fight, let us gather, let us keep this flame alive,
For the only ones who can change the course are those who believe in the magic within,
In our beloved Romania, under the mantle of night full of enigmas,
We will write an unforgettable epic, a call to truth and light.
With pain I gasp but something must be done,
I need to breathe again soft, dewy dawn,
Not grieve alone upon a setting sun,
Whisper and pray that sadness will be gone.
I have often tried to utter goodbye,
I tried my best to forget the past, but
Thoughts murmur “All's lost”. My heart and mind sigh.
Change seems impossible, I'm in a rut.
Day after day, this soul breaking routine,
Gone are sweet days of happiness and joy
Many events have happened in between
Our love, I assure you, none can destroy.
Yet time has come, leave sadness and enjoy,
Walk, dance, swim and behave like a young boy.
28 April 2021
Writing Prompt - Breathe - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Syllables Per Line: 10
Placed 3
I love sweet morning melodies,
a wild stream bubbling along;
horses grazing in a meadow,
a forest echoing my name;
the murmur of leaves rustling,
and the hum of bees;
oh, the flutter of butterflies,
the choir of birds singing.
I love the whistling wind,
the soothing calm it brings;
the placid yellow of buttercups,
and clouds that sail silently.
I breathe in the mystery,
of nature's melancholy and sigh;
of birds pruning a wing.
My heart is awed within,
for the beauty of day;
and each new dawn's beginning,
when I put past away;
in the silence around me.
___________________________
September 15, 2019
Poetry/Imagism/New Dawn
Copyright Protected,ID 19-1181-211-02
All Rights Reserved.
Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Any Poem You Want To Write - 100 Words
sponsor, Caren Krutsinger
Second Place
Once, there was a time when I wallowed in darkness
wading in the shallows of my flaws, I confess.
Shadows of hovering ravens were my only friends.
I was lost in time as stars died, but made amends
by untying myself from yesterdays to stop crying.
I stopped living in a morass as if I were dying.
Many who remain tethered to their past try hiding
but freedom will take flight in those hearts confiding.
There is a gentle wind that blows through a soul
leaving glittered traces of stardust to make it whole.
Whispers murmur to wings that brighten the gloom,
lifting the muddled veil of death so life can resume.
No longer do I cringe at the dreary thought of death
or gasping for air as if I were drawing my last breath.
One day I will fall as carrion, my body lying supine
and I become a banquet feast where many might dine.
If feathered creatures circle me in skies of ash gray,
who then will come to chase the hungry ravens away?
Not a true Choka...but uses a 5,7,7,5,7,7 format
-------------------------------------------------
Chill, steaming vapour;
Silence over pale water;
Faded, thin wisps of ribboned
Pink
Above the east gate;
I dip oars...and silence
Breaks.
Trace of flame in lilac sky.
Raise, lean, dip and pull;
Sculling forward little
Twirls
Swirl away from dripping
Blades;
Uplifted soul -- soaring!
Remembering how, when young...
Each new day would bring
New hope.
Extends the shoreline --
Sweeping inwards at the
Point;
Green bulrushes in the bay;
A bittern booming:-
Rising up like slow thunder
Drifting out of jade mountains.
My busied childhood,
Hidden pate not yet shaven;
Shrimping with a fine mesh
Net;
Loud, boyish laughter;
Brimming jars crammed with
Sunbeams --
The golden, darting minnows.
Horizon widens,
Shadow retreats from low
Hills;
Gathering orb comforts me;
Selfsame warm comfort
When held by sleepy women
In cold grey of early dawn.
The vaguest murmur,
Faint as drowsy breathe,
Of the soundings of dim chimes...
A call to prayer?
Hands hard-clenched on the
Staid oars;
Restrained by yesteryear.
Beneath the sea, the train slips into shadow,
a vessel of murmur wrapped in motion,
threading two empires of thought and stone.
London behind, Paris ahead, history pulsing
in the dark between.
Above us, the English Channel stirs,
unaware of the weight we carry,
not luggage, but centuries of verse, of vision,
of the painted and the sung.
That train runs fast and faster,
The greens disappearing on both sides in a blink.
Thames and Seine, bonded with art and culture,
love and affection from London to Paris.
London,
where the Thames glides slowly with solemn pride,
It's banks cradling the ghost of Blake,
His angels watching over soot and smoke.
Tennyson once stood tall there,
Laureate of crown and grief,
His odes echoing in the marble hush of Westminster.
Turner’s storms still burn across the canvas sky,
while the city folds its myths into stone and spire,
its bridges heavy with memory.
The tunnel comes not as absence,
but as a breath held long beneath history’s weight.
The English Channel, a wonder of the world,
filled with miles to touch each coast,
a bridge of silence, a passage of dreams,
where steel and longing meet.
Paris rises, soft with light,
The Seine a ribbon of gold in afternoon hush.
The Louvre gleams with the hush of reverence,
Mona Lisa’s quiet, endless gaze,
Leonardo’s sigh forever caught in oil and air.
Here, verse spills from café tables,
Baudelaire’s decadent lilies, Rimbaud’s revolts,
and Hugo’s granite grandeur,
each echoing through boulevards like
steps in the wet after-rain.
In Versailles, once walked a stranger
whose name would alight in Bengal:
Michael Madhusudan Dutt, exiled, eloquent,
who carved epics in a borrowed tongue,
then gave it back transformed.
In marble gardens, he mourned his motherland,
His Duttabharati heart bridging Kopotakkho to Seine with sonnet and sorrow,
East to West in measured meters.
Two cities not divided by sea,
but bound beneath it, stone clasping stone,
poem clasping poem, Madhusudan to Milton,
Turner to Monet,
London and Paris, a pair of eternal mirrors,
in love with beauty, in dialogue forever.
We pass beneath that unspoken vow,
carried by steel, by memory,
by the quiet rhythm of art continuing.
A gentle rainfall, of emotions,
whispered by the sea.
The stage aligned as her gaze meets mine,
a golden treasure to me.
A cave of solitude,
she will find me, for a spell
she will bind to me,
nestle to-of warm by and by a sea shore in a shell.
She is my nemesis, of a God scourned, my eternal punishment burn.
So on and on, we chase, of my yearn- her
strange land to taste,
my wasteland, ruin,
gemscaped, sojourned continuum.
By lapping tractor beams, dressed in the private
night of exclusivity, gown of huntress
to preying emnity key of the unknown,
scale of medusa, justice,
raptors of Valkyri, dawning crown,
of day, rays
of proximity to speak in unimpede, as she may,
mongrel fish as she please.
I am for her, and she freely shines for me.
She is a revelation- as shadows play-peek aboo
behind the scenes, Lyred puppetry
spread upon the wall,
looking back in grin and thrall,
she does not recede, in fact not at all.
Time, she bends, over and overture,
draping like a bowed music, seed of heaven,
caricature of my completeness,
seven times seven.
In the theater of twilight, where whispers entwine,
a tapestry of emotion, your heart meets mine.
As gentle rains murmur their secrets to seas,
in our silent impediment,
dance on the edge of eternity’s ease, of we.
Your gaze, a constellation, draws me in tight,
while lapping waves beckon, a soft, secret, contrite.
Dressed in the velvet of night’s soft embrace,
the dawn conspires your beauty, in a luminous grace.
For in this moment, I am wholly for you,
the sun it is in your laughter, the stars in your view.
You are a revelation, a canvas where I am rushed anew,
with shadows that frolic, and dreams brushed through.
Lyred puppetry sways, casting stories so grand,
and the walls of our hearts weave a world,
grand halls, a throne at hand in hand.
Time, a silken thread, weaves its opulent spell,
as the music of longing in mind like a siren's wail.
Here in this dreamscape, surrender your fears,
in the soft glow of day, intrigues the old seers.
As the cloak of the inevitable draws me close,
and the moment does ring,
does yoke,
know forever, my dear, you are my everything,
with rhyme, but not a slight, jest or joke.
In the realm where shadows stretch and fragile light flickers timidly,
a world where each step, each whisper rolls into the void,
modern beings are entangled in the web of ambition,
not to be, but to succeed in this relentless race.
We, the descendants of the tireless generation,
where the anthem is "do more, but feel less,"
are the architects of progress, masters of power,
yet builders of hollow monuments in our own hearts.
Driven by success, hidden under masks of triumph,
we march forward, but where is our soul in this ascent?
The whispers of our inner emptiness echo like sounds in a vast canyon,
begging to be confronted, embraced, understood.
In the silent corridors of our minds,
where fears of life itself settle like specters,
lie the seeds of fulfillment, waiting to be unearthed.
Is neurosis the fate of the modern soul,
a spirit trapped in the chains of a culture
devoted to the gods of power and progress?
I answer, yes, it is so,
when we allow our hearts to be eclipsed by shadows,
ignoring the melodies of true existence within ourselves.
For in the pursuit of outward victories,
we have neglected the art of being,
of feeling deeply, of truly living.
When the noise of ambition fades,
and we dare to listen to silence,
we might discover fragments of ourselves,
the forgotten verses of our own being.
In a dance of light and shadow,
between the realms of doing and feeling,
resides the magic of human essence,
a poem awaiting to be written,
a song whispered among the stars,
guiding us back to our hearts.
Let us, then, stop in our relentless chase,
to hear the murmur of our spirit,
to feel the breath of our soul,
and perhaps, in that sacred silence,
we will truly become,
embracing the melancholic beauty
of our infinite, gentle, and tender humanity.
I just want to say
I forgot my friend
And if it were
Any other day
It just would not end
And I’ll see you
In another life
And I’ll see you
In another day
Some loved ones remain eternal
Others we hold below a murmur
Sometimes the means of what it takes
Tires us, a bit sluggish
Life waving goodbye
With a palm full of luggage
From here, as individuals
To where do we roam
When lost is gone
And nowhere is home
Suddenly
I just want to save
The whereabouts
We once knew
Yet here I am today
And I’ll see you
In another life
Yes I’ll see you
In another day
And I just want to say
I forgot my friend
And if it were
And other day
It just would not end