Long Nocturne Poems
Long Nocturne Poems. Below are the most popular long Nocturne by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nocturne poems by poem length and keyword.
Life on a death bed
Bending boughs of flaxen curls
Loose tendrils frame and swirl
In the wind and rain
Liquid snakes stain
Your cheeks
Black streaks
A masterpiece in mixed media of life and death
White moonlight lights the ball of your face
Your face a sculpture in pain
A study of Nocturne in Black and Gold
You are a location
Ambiguous emotion set against line and form
Bleak tones a sense of void
You claimed once that the rain was made to obscure the tears of humanity
Collectively we could
I could touch you
Your flesh cold and waxy
A dab of heat here and there
just under the surface
a palpable purpose proving me you live
Your bones bend as scantling timber,
Your balsa-wood heart verily
Snaps
At the sweet nothingness
Of words
Air simply reverberating
Some imbued meaning
You’ve staked so much on
That ride in the air
On sonic waves
To oscillating fimbria
That gives hope
To life.
In twilight's silhouette I rock my mind to sleep
An effort to release me to a slumber so deep
The mystique of dreams unfolds in the night
A canvas peacefully painted in the faint moonlight
Far-reaching sensations in a hypnotic trance
Settle into serenity after light’s last glance
Counting grains of white sand as time in retreat
Next to sweeping fields full of golden wheat
Light-hearted reality sways in the breeze
My relaxed mind drifts through nocturnal seas
Paying homage to the effort it took to get here
Relinquishing power to an idyllic rest I hold dear
My mind striking a melodic chord in rhythmic tune
Dancing with the moon until sun’s morning boon
dust-wearing-wind carries a feeble cry in its palm,
settles it near ears that can no longer hear.
Cries arise from hollows of your hungry face,
a pulpit of high cheeks bones— in sharp relief
to sunken skin-scape sallow and paper thin—
a preacher on the harrows of hunger.
Vulture keeps a still, silent vigil,
a patient witness to your starvation,
comrade and adversary
in a fight for your last breath and beat.
Your loyal companion, a symbol of death
where drones rain with flames on tents of refugees
and sky splitting missiles make shrapnel of the sun,
where dragon fire artillery shoots the moon
and shreds stars till they fate-fall
like the last nightjars from nocturne skies.
Dear child of war,
alone with nothing in your belly but a stone,
rib bones a famine cage,
thoracic fingers squeeze your soul.
Your heart a hostage,
flutters like a lost moth against your sternum.
I long to hold you and feed you
honey made from a million wild flowers
uncrushed beneath metal plates of tank treads.
I yearn to bathe you of collapsed concrete dust
cleanse you of your mother’s blood, her
rattle-boned, battle-owned, maternal body wrapped
over yours as they fed her Kalashnikov lead.
My faraway ache for your plight pales
against your tiny body’s black-rose-throes,
a pawn to thorns of soldiers
grown on rocket-torn-boot-worn streets.
War-zone fig trees bear no fruit,
hibiscus buds die as hornets knit nests into shrubs,
tomorrow but a diseased wheat field laid to waste.
Dear child of war,
deliverance will come when pall-bearer winds
carry your cries elsewhere…
Tunneling through nightscapes,
weightless moon doll escapes.
Collapsing space-time,
the pages and pages,
of fluttering windblown stages
in quantum nonlocality,
a graphic novel engages.
Burrowing through dystopian nocturne,
the night traffic gives us heartburn.
In magical claytronics, everyone is reassembled,
reincarnated by cosmic consciousness,
a karmic cautiousness, a persistence of
endless distance but finite parallel.
We see the light out of this tunnel.
Can we make the quantum leap?
Casting aside ego, agency falls away as
subject and object merge. These urban
alleys meander in uncharted charcoal
where moonlight and streetlight converge.
Karmic propensities, the good and bad
conditioning restrain us to this dingy dark.
Tunneling is tiring when there is no end,
like remembering ourselves in past lives,
and knowing who we will be in coming times.
All of these identities, these storylines are explained
by the ground of being integral to all things.
This is the consciousness, the Dharma.
Near-death shows us the light beyond the tunnels,
beyond the grimy graphic novel, a liberation
beyond birth, death, and rebirth.
Quantum leap now to the luminous mind, the moksha,
the complete nirvana.
In London’s gaslit, art-enamoured scene,
Lived two great wits, with egos sharp and keen.
The Painter James, with monocle and cane,
The Poet Wilde, who found in art no pain,
But only beauty, in a world mundane.
They vied for notice, ‘midst the social whirl,
Two shining stars, one butterfly, one pearl.
Their row, half-feigned for the public’s gay delight,
Was a rap contest in the fading light,
A friendly jousting for the bon mot’s might.
Whistler speaks, "Au cobtraire, you!"
“Now Oscar, pray, observe my ‘Nocturne’ blue,
A symphony in tone, a vision true.
No moral burden, no heavy, social plea,
Just ‘Art for Art’s Sake,’ for the world to see.”
Wilde retorts articulately:
“Your art, dear Jimmy, is a lovely thing,
A shell where the ocean’s music seems to sing.
But tell me, James, without a hint of ire,
When you paint nature, do you find desire?
Or just a canvas for your genius’ fire?”
Whistler snaps back, playing a lyre:
“Nature, my boy, is usually wrong!
She’s seldom perfect and does not last for long.
I merely help her, lend a guiding hand,
To make her beauty understood, and grand.”
Wilde replies, with a theatrical strand:
“I wish, dear James, that I had said that line!”
Whistler’s eyes, with mock-offence, do shine:
“You will, good Oscar, you will, in your time!”
A stinging jest, a hint of plagiarism’s dart,
Which Oscar parried, with his usual art.
The playful jousting became a la carte,
Their friendship ended on bit of a bitter notary.
Whistler complained his ideas were filched away,
That Wilde had stolen his dandyish display.
He called him “middleman,” a critic, not an artistian,
Wilde, in return, called Whistler an “ill-bred” person,
A “venerable impostor,” to make the matter worsen.
The battle moved to newspapers, bold and crass,
Their lively letters, a gift to the masses.
“When you and I are together,” Wilde did opine,
“We talk of nothing but ourselves, I find.”
“No, no, dear Oscar,” Whistler quickly wrote,
“When we’re together, we talk of me, note!”
A final jab, a rivalry complete,
The war of wits, a well-known, public feat.
Wilde had the last word in his novel, Dorian Gray,
Where the murdered artist had his little say.
Their rivalry remembered, for the wit they shared,
Two sparkling egos, gloriously paired.
Here the Bluejay***
Here! Here! …These tall,
Spindly stalks, although sweetly
JGreen, with their crowns bobbing
In the touches of air…the Cosmos
Flowers wait…
For their rippling nocturne to begin,
To sound forth the garden dances
…Here
To bloom, a delicious pink…or, too,
Their petals in a star’s white circling
The precious points of pollen
— Ready for their flights on the air —
To be taken off…by weather’s
Wonders to re-seed…
Here! Here now, see
The flying blues…
The spliced sky …those jays,
Regal-hued and shrieking,
Here! Here am I!
As one sweeps down through
The hazy-yellow air, landing
Precisely there on the deck rail,
Bowing to seat his belly on
The length of pine. Then, he opens
Out his wings…to each side, flat
Upon the wood…those feathers…
Beauty spread, vulnerably, sunning
With eyes closed, beak raised up
To the sky, in peace, captain of
His space…in those moments
Pausing for some pleasure, it seems,
….To so amaze! For, truly,
I’d never imagined that a life of
The sky would wish for grounding
To stop to sun, especially one of
The anxious jays…shouting
Here! Here am I! This spot is mine!
Until later, with a fluttering leap, he
Streaks the white-puffed, blue sky
With his white-marked and specked
Blue-feathered form…That sunning
Jay’s bliss in rest was captured
By a human’s eyes. Mine! Here!
…This lasting memory
Of summer…these turning pages
Of golden air and a jay laying out
His wings, so gently down,
The same way as butterflies do
…for a time in nature, the exquisite
Sensing of motion to place…
To pause…Here
By the blooming cosmos.
…………………
——————————————————————————
(C) sally young Eslinger 6/2021
Thanks be to God
Je Ne Sais Quoi
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difficult to define
she's a one of a kind
beautiful lady
as a matter of fact
her power to attract
makes most men crazy
engaging and alluring
she's anything but boring
she' a one of kind
special lady
that certain something
a perfect mention
that why she's my
special lady
a sense of elegance
a delighting attractive smile
she's a sweet kinda lady
magnetic charm
who's side are you on
step back Mister
that's my Lady
she came with me
she's leaving with me
to you that might sound crazy
she's one of a kind
I was blessed to find
such a magnificent Lady
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"Con Abbandono Version"
" Courtesy of the lovers"
Music by Musicains
From; "This Time Next Year -Our Anniversary"
Warrior to dark's most daunting dreams
savior from thoughts that run too deep
Terrify, not one dares it seems
brings panacea to night's sleep
Beacon for flailing ships asea,
the Ana of fifty shades Grey
Beauty saving the nocturne beast
keeps subconscious demons at bay
Catches every breath with her smile
as summer's sun, a heart it warms
Intensity not seen awhile
quells the worst of fierce thunderstorms
Her touch, akin to the spring's rain
gently blooming buds to flowers
Still, mental images are vain
ne'er experience her powers
Shan't romance, seduce, love, or hold
hear her voice, feel her aura's beams
Suppose I could, though not so bold
so she must stay within my dreams
Only one shall be the kiss
an elixir pressing
metal into gold
nothing else exists
bold lips sinking into mine
embracing what will become
an unforgettable nocturne
Our bodies melting
soaked in the depths
of dopamine’s lifts
all control drifts
losing myself in you
Pieces of me
illuminate and soar
nothing else exists
Light disappears into
night’s darkness…
and nothing else exists
except warm and tender arousal
a golden spark
of a kiss in the dark
Written: September 10, 2023
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Mounts daydreams in the azure bay.
An eerie sway casts halos in the night sky.
As a sparkling moonbeam sprayed moon.
It is the lyrical refrain of the world, hewn.
Drenched in the moonlight odoriferous embrace,
The moonlit reverie grabs its place.
Whispering chronicles of zeal and desire,
In the nebulous shadows, fealty will transpire.
The moon, a regent on its celestial throne,
Ascends the empyrean heights, shown
Its resplendent blaze dabbled in the night,
Splashed across the sky with splendor and might.
A symphony of ripples waltz upon the bay,
As moonshine shimmer casts a cynosure display,
Reflecting the existential ephemeral mysteries,
A nocturne of dreams, amorous for centuries
In this moonlit flash, a queen of midnight.
Splashes the globe with her translucent light.
Her canvas, speckled with paint, is a delight.
Wisdom for forlorn lovers on the starry night.
She queries the stars from her throne in the sky,
And bequeath stories on distant moon rays.
So placid to the grasp, yet sparkling in Gestalt,
And limns on the moon's sketch to impart art.