Long Neon Poems
Long Neon Poems. Below are the most popular long Neon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Neon poems by poem length and keyword.
Moon be my magenta muse
Come wrestle me lavender loose
From a sleepless silver song
Mahogany melodies all night long
I imagine licorice lover’s loft
And mango kisses so soft
Teal tormenting yet tender thought
On warm white sheets I toss
Could you emerald exist in time
Are you just a toy in my mind
Inspired by red angst a fire
To join in loin dance of desire
Yet I feel the pull of soul
Surely your spirit is close
For there’s a tingling of toes
And feverish breath blood flows
I’ve saved a place for you
Planted peace like lily bloom
I’m loyal to you in heart
May love begin as a spark
I know you long for me
For charisma is what I bring
And a cinnamon caramel bun
To entice love hot as sun
That you squeeze if you please
So soft you fall to brown knees
A meeting of like minds
Moon kissed by turquoise time
You ignite indigo delight
Toys with me all neon night
Before we find each other
Happy to have no lover
Moonlight baptized brown eyes
That search for you for life
I’m happy to wait for you
Sun kissed lover of moon
The thought of our first conversation
Fills me with amber anticipation
So much to look forward to
Joining in spirit with you
Keeps me loyal content and true
For a mango kiss delivered by moon
8/21/2014
There's a place
inside my mind
That I always try to
find
Escaping life for
just a while
Will help me put on
a smile
Entering this
special place
Worries I can soon
erase
Seeing beauty I've
created
Colors and smells
are inflated
Buds are blooming
colors bright
A garden of rainbow
light
Aroma dancing in the
air
Flower perfume
everywhere
Autumn red and gold
on trees
Eyes of splendor as
they see
Leaves show off some
flying skills
Decorating all the
hills
Butterflies
spreading their
wings
In the skies like
new paintings
Neon yellow, pink
and blues
Cookies baking with
delight
Deliciousness
filling the night
The goodness of
chocolate chips
Melty ooze upon your
lips
Bedtime--this
fabulous place
Is a dream I will
soon chase
The next time I fall
apart
My journey again
will start
Behind the magnolia curtain, childhood ne’er knew.
Drawn to Sleepy Hollow - over the river, really
mountains; and the thruway, to Grandma’s we go.
Magnificent magnolias, bountiful with perfume,
born when I was steeped in maturity. Now I know
the shiny leaves that tremble in hot ‘lanta breeze.
Whilst the ghosts of the Catskills clip clop; shadows
that fell the canopy of treetops; the Borscht Belt
entertaining with neon signs, drawing my eyes.
Crépe myrtles connect the present and past,
I’d not notice the smooth legs until the gypsy eyes,
of a poet, were mesmerized by these sprightly trees.
Gone With the Wind comes to life as I entered
North Carolina life, bigger than life; Miss Daisy,
was driving me crazy; the drama of a small town,
I’d ne’er known, now bit my hands, slammed
my fingers in the door, waged jealousy and more;
brought to the surface my lack of skill and sins.
I gained my bearings, muscled my spirituality,
in other words prayed, bumbled, hurrayed any inroads,
gained love and fascination for these characters.
First thing said to me by the closest coworker:
“I know how much you make!”
‘Well, howdy do, and bless your heart’ -
that last bit, the burn I learned in the deep South.
You see in the Catskill mountains, we lob heads off,
well, at least the Headless Horseman does the dirty work.
Sweet smell of magnolias, Southern belles, mean old South;
still I met my best friend as I landed in Marietta -
I admire her, she’s kind, and wise, perfect in my eyes.
I could smell and sense
the showers coming in the air
with an approaching storm.
I inhale this
light little scent of heaven.
The rain will never dampen my spirits.
No umbrella for me tonight.
But, I don't mind,
I'll walk in the rain.
I savor this
sweet little taste of heaven.
The flavor is cool and refreshing,
with a purity
that is almost indescribable.
It is cleansing to my soul,
I can feel it
washing away my cares,
and making it okay to smile, again.
I experience this
gentle little caress of heaven.
When it soaks through
my jacket and my jeans.
My shoes splash
in the rain
with every step that I take.
I can hear it
tap dancing on the rooftops,
with invisible feet.
The streetlights
reflect on the wet pavement,
in pools of gold and silver.
The neon signs blink,
red and yellow,
blue and green.
Like drips of paint,
it puddles on the street.
Bringing color
to where there was none before,
only a flood of gray.
Now there is a palette
of fragrances to absorb.
Creating almost a rainbow
in the nighttime.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
November 11th, 2013
For Nette Onclaud's contest - "Fragrance Of Rain"
I met her in the city's silent veins,
Where neon flickers like forgotten flames.
It was Christmas — a holy night,
Yet her smile outshone every light.
Nicole Jackson — a name etched in song,
A melody where nothing felt wrong.
She lived on 7th, behind the old café,
But where I slept, she’d never say.
We met where the world stood still,
Hands entwined, hearts warm and real.
Parks heard our laughter, streets knew our kiss,
Each moment with her, an eternal bliss.
We spoke of stars and ancient skies,
Of futures drawn in lovers’ eyes.
I kissed her beneath a winter moon,
Whispered, “I’ll make you mine soon.”
Then Easter came with sacred grace,
I saw the sun rise in her face.
After church, in the soft spring air,
I took her hand with gentle care.
I reached inside my coat, heart racing fast,
Pulled out a ring, sealed to last.
Her eyes lit like dawn on quiet seas,
She nodded once — her soul said “please.”
I kissed her deep, her breath was mine,
The world around us ceased to shine.
In secret hours we made love slow,
Like rivers to oceans, steady they flow.
Then night returned, I went alone,
To call her once I reached my home.
But silence answered — just a ring,
Three times I tried, felt everything.
The next day’s dusk, I went again,
Her house was locked — like time in chain.
No trace, no word, no echo found,
Just wind that wept without a sound.
Five days turned into endless years,
Still I search through hope and tears.
Nicole, oh Nicole, where did you go?
What truth lies beneath this snow?
Some say angels love and leave,
That beauty is too bright to grieve.
But I still walk 7th street at night,
Looking for your vanished light.
fluorescent trees bathe in the scent
of a citrus mid-evening,
fingertips tracing lemon stars
as roots house the very veins that
wake the smell of quietude: of what
mystery wets the blanket
of sparkling air robed in yellow mist,
as wisps of neon feathers rub
breezes ordained only for crickets
winging threads of flowered hair… hush!
the settling night induces a thousand
births of newborn seeds, seeds gaping
primeval rebirth stirring the flavor
of another late night in hints of amber,
and dusk slowly changes her skin
to finest tone so golden like wickers
of coming dawn… this is my kind of yellow
a burst of light where handmaids of wind
glide beneath my feet, the lake and dune…
this halo ever flickering through eyes’ palette
-----
For Broan Strand 265
Open lotuses of purple and indigo hues
casting spells beneath lawny skies of midnight blue
each brilliant star more sparkly then the next by heaven's roam;
Like shooting fireflies and minuets of silent reveries,
the neon fairies claim the quiet waters of the Thame,
as lilies glide inside slow gentle rain ....
Opuses of art in natures private Cul de sac
water vessel of grace, incumbent chalice of the night
undulating sinuously towards the evening light
none can duplicate the beauty of, your even flow;
Who knows who knows which way the gale winds blow
but this I know,... no never have I seen
such incandescent fiery light, cleaving at the cusp of night.
January 20, 2022
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
Contest Name The Chalice of Night
AntiPoem 2
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
Let us march now inside St. Mary’s,
March reverently through these green repentant doors,
These holy portals to grace and absolution,
Into a stain-glassed sanctuary of sinners kneeling in disguise,
These sullied souls coming in through the out door again,
Figuring death is furloughed from the crucifixion business,
Two thousand blurry years later.
Let us still march forward now to the glassed tabernacle,
Resting up there ensconced upon the marble altar,
Beyond human touch;
The host inside now transubstantiating as with earthen time,
From dry crusty oatmeal,
To omnipotent King of the Universe.
The boy holds his new Sunday missal,
As the family drives to ancient St. Joseph’s,
Up the asphalt hill, there on Gold Street,
Amidst the tentative Yuletide presentations,
Of tinsel-lit trees and blinking avenue abodes.
In the distance Lady Lassen wears a white bonnet,
As the Redding Christmas Tree stands exuberant,
Seventy-three feet into the icy air on Market Street,
A rainbow-glowing giant with a thousand staring eyes.
Brenda Lee is singing,
Rocking Around the Christmas Tree,
From blaring radios inside Oldsmobiles and Studebakers,
Cruising Placer Street to the Cascade showing Butterfield 8.
The boy is counting the neon cocktails,
While riding in the backseat on blue polyurethane,
His father is intently driving the blue ’58 impala,
Into a gravelly hilltop parking lot.
Blaring outward from the church there I heard voices,
A bubbling sacramental bouillabaisse of silent
Parishioners all genuflecting in pristine Latin confusion.
The girls choir wearing skirts of curious plaid, is
Singing loudly and softly their angelic vocal renderings:
“Gloria in excelsis Deo"
Father Elliot is extending his arms outward now,
Bestowing the final expectant blessing;
He is giving absolution to the captives driving Cadillacs.
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
Here, as the dark city glistens
Here, as the dark city glistens,
rain pelts unsuspecting sidewalks,
filling cracks and running gutters
Disguising stoic potholes in black,
snickering as they wait silently
to startle the next drowsy driver to pass by
Neon reflects in puddles of discontent
while high rise lights
flicker in kitchens above where
cold water seems to be the answer
as groggy eyes fiddle with leftover decisions
making more noise than can be heard
3 am, desolate, just a few cats
rummage in alleys for unsuspecting rats
and other rodents who have sold their dreams
for a temporary high, plastic bag desires
that come morning will seek its revenge
and hands will be out promising redemption,
counting brown leather wing tips and Prada heels
I stop at the old library slated for demolition,
tracing the lopsided heart with our initials
I carved into the brick
as you kept a look out so we wouldn’t get caught
Laughing at the dust that gathered on my shoes,
Telling me it would be forever
not the dust, us, we weren’t
Lonely is a state of mind
for those who wander these concrete caverns,
unable to sleep
Finding opened eyed nightmares
resemble those that they now run from,
hoping the next corner holds the key
to the past when nights were spent
under warm covers, in soft arms,
not walking alone, not dying, not
here, as the dark city glistens
Being a parsel-tongue, I knew I was Slytherine, of course.
Dressing in scales and slithering would give it away though.
So I dressed as my patronus, seventeen-hands high stallion horse,
Entering the Great hall with mask that had a green neon glow.
Hermione was not easily found, but I spotted Ron’s hair right away.
He was attempting to perform a small spell to help out a Ravenclaw.
Hufflepuffs were clumping around, not mingling, like every day.
Draco Malfoy, my nemesis is a guy that I almost immediately saw.
Why do we allow mudbloods into Hogwarts? He was demanding.
He is a broken record, that Neanderthal, full of hate if you ask me.
He is always politicizing, and his motives are full of under-handing.
I could wait until this night was over, no one here I wanted to see.
A small Slytherin slithered past me wearing a snake costume. I laughed.
Hagrid came by with two dragons, which were not legal, I will bet.
Ron said “You knew me, didn’t you? I should have come as a giraffe.
No, I liked. You had me fooled. Hermione walked by then with her pet.
When did she get a grampoodle? I asked my pal whose face was red.
I did not know she had one, she probably conjured it herself, he said.
Hermione turned and gave him that withering look she has mastered.
A new Gryffindor recruit threw up on the next chair, he was totally plastered.