Long Oeuvre Poems
Long Oeuvre Poems. Below are the most popular long Oeuvre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Oeuvre poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: August 20, 2023
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As dawn brightens the morning skies,
A gentle hand brushes the lambent horizon.
Shades of gold and soft hues arise.
With a touch of blue, a blush painting dawn.
Cobalt night beckons, as day takes its rest.
The naked moon rises, in the amber light.
Lacy veils of light float in the air in the west.
Teases the swelling tides with a gentle sight.
Night light, a lover's secret affair
As dawn brightens the morning sky.
A kaleidoscope of hues, joyous treat no compare
The hand of nature, a divine artist, is high.
Creating a jewel of art, such a radiant scene.
The dawn light chases away the cobalt night.
unveiling a previously unseen fictional ravine.
The sun bursts, bathing all in its warm light.
The birds' melodies form a halcyon choir.
The urge to live is reawakened from higher.
In the wind, leaves rustle and trees sway.
Whispering stories of a pristine, raw day.
As the sun rises and lights the morning sky.
Ample promise and hope in each fresh day.
It's a shift, a transition from darkness to light.
An aesthetic oeuvre of art, a breathtaking sight
The finger that paints the lopsided sky
creates a burst of vibrant hues to imply
From mellow pastels to gold hues.
Nature is an endless fountain of the muse.
i took her riding
this time my venue, not hers
she loves horses, i am no equestrian
i am beyond saddle sore now
trail rides where every bird is identified
a short illumination of the species
mine are in this little park
where we would steal away
paddle boats thru the geese and ducks
she would always pack up bread
i always gave her enough notice
so she could buy the better bread
the day-old the bakery dumps cheap
it is healthier she will tell you
i always considered myself educated
until i found her lips
Robison Crusoe washed ashore
an island of magical moments
an oeuvre in my captivated heart
my magic is in the carousel
horses that go round and round
back in line to do it again
holding onto the bar i lean in
to steal a kiss, keep her in laughter
as the music and horses dance in a wonderland
the Wurlitzer organ fills the air with a bewitchment
we join parents and children in the magic
later we retire upon a bench
from her bag appears our humble offerings
every morsel approved by the minister of health
every grain is explained by lips i so adore
the ducks and geese beg at our feet
she delights in each morsel she throws
the happiness she wears on her face
i see Mother Goose in the crowd approving
drakes and hens galore with ducklings
the beauty of joy fills her eyes
to love her is to share her
caged birds are a sad lot
such a small price to pay
ride the carousel hand in hand
the alchemy in whirling horses and music
from an age long gone now
my treasure, a moment all to myself with her
to dwell in the magic of sharing loaves
those adoring eyes watching her
are a chorus i share
the bird of paradise has no price
master of her every dream
that is the labor of love
surrounding those dreams
with the magic life holds
3/2/19 Lufkin
I bathed, one day, in the Dead Sea,
My belly floated like a piece of wood
The water was so salty, it stung the skin
It was necessary to go out and take a good shower,
I have not known Jesus, me, nor Jean Baptiste,
I have not known Simon, nor the small fishermen,
I have not been a saint, nor seen silver nets,
I have let the sun do its work of sun,
I bathed, one day, on the Dead Sea,
Between Syria and Palestine, looking at Israel pure,
My belly floated like a piece of wood
The fame of the place, has enlightened my soul.
Je me suis baigné, un jour, dans la Mer Morte,
Mon ventre flottait comme un bout de bois,
L’eau était si salée, qu’elle piquait la peau
Il fallut en sortant prendre une bonne douche,
Je n’ai pas Connu Jésus, moi, ni Jean Baptiste,
Je n’ai pas connu Simon, ni les petits pêcheurs,
Je n’ai pas vu de saint, ni de filets d’argent,
J’ai laissé le soleil faire son œuvre de soleil,
Je me suis baigné, un jour, sur la Mer Morte,
Entre Syrie et Palestine, regardant Israël la pure,
Mon ventre flottait comme un bout de bois,
La renommée de l’endroit, a éclairé mon âme.
How So Humdrum...
Being A Nonpartisan Author
One path of literary renown striving
to craft belles lettres
versus another aim
ming to inject castigation,
fulmination, and intimidation
(unlike tours truly) into
hers/his epistemological dogmatic claim,
would exemplify the twofold tactic,
I matter of factly exclaim
as an aspiring August author
(foremost poet emeritus - ha),
downplaying fortune and fame
aye attempt to tread within
figurative noncontroversial guidelines,
yet nonetheless game
increased readership remaining
safely shy of steering
clear away NOT deliberately inflame
ming the moral majority, and/or
being soak halled politically incorrect,
yet absolutely aware trite neutral,
tis well nigh impossible
towing thru tranquil waters
subsequently inadvertently pitching
smoldering embers sparking acquiring
(even accidentally)
fiery Machiavellian jobname
though methinks expressing
notions, opinions, perspectives,
would contradict advocating viewpoints
incumbent within
creative arts whereat lame
duck role would essentially be
antithetical to general rubric maim
ming necessity to stoke thought
provoking oeuvre of work name
lee poetry and/or prose sans,
this scrivener to (dirt) poor
to afford a penname
aspiring all the same
to experience even pocket change
keeping my liberal
minded material tame.
A true good sort of our beloved sport held court...name in hall of fame has its place but nought plaudits sought humility taught to face the rash race to slapdash and onslaught of all out pace which Kane fought and was slain again with a swish of his lions mane and lashings of panache & lacy grace..
His oeuvre could hang in the Louvre so arcane
Heavenly humility hums on simply higher plane
Angelic ability strums his rhapsody of restrain
Classy never brassy this balletic lullaby refrain
Symphony epiphanies aesthetic of his reign
Poetic ebb & flow kinetic that third man lane
Stoic almost prophetic that cricketing brain
Heroic skipper of champagne WTC campaign
Ascetic in the nets again insane how he’d train
So fond of his willow wand traditions to maintain
Never frenetic play to the conditions he’d explain
Textbook renditions history of Test tapestry retain
Weird mystery Robinson Crusoe beard did sustain
Stranded on isle of guile & wile is Kane’s domain
Martin Crowe did know such style you can’t feign
Never vain or inane with lacy grace did entertain
Didn't complain final mission got lost in the rain
Good sort of our sport from limelight did abstain
No disdain this knight's records forever remain
Memories of mastery & artistry will never wane
Last post gong is a love song feel the Kiwi pain
Goodbye Kane we will never see your like again
I could stay for hours under the sun
to contemplate bouquets of primroses,
to listen to the buzzing of insects,
To contemplate their petals, the shape of hearts,
I could stay for hours if no one comes,
to absorb the happiness of such delicate flowers,
Ah, wasting your time is always winning it,
Wasting your time, it’s an art, it’s a work,
It takes the help of God and wild nature,
To understand the soul of things, symbols,
I could stay for hours in the sun.
Contemplating primrose bouquets.
Je pourrais rester des heures sous le soleil
à contempler des bouquets de primevères,
à écouter le bourdonnement des insectes,
à contempler leurs pétales en forme de cœur,
Je pourrais rester des heures si nul ne vient,
à absorber le bonheur des fleurs si délicates,
Ah, perdre son temps, c’est toujours le gagner,
Perdre son temps , c’est un art, c’est une œuvre,
Il faut l’aide de Dieu et de la nature sauvage,
Pour comprendre l’âme des choses, des symboles,
Je pourrais rester des heures sous le soleil.
À contempler des bouquets de primevères.
Hands clench stuck in a culinary trench with no French
Devotion can’t bench sensory commotion a saucy wench
Emotions wrench if no whiff on the breeze of cheese stench
Potions & notions quench..ocean lotions tastebuds drench
For a foodie bouillebaisse with timeless grace like Judi Dench
No dodgy Brigitte Bardot politics or slick card tricks of tarot
Go for Gallic garlic gall.. all will enthrall when in Gaul..Escargot
Choir of desire ce soir more beurre.. pot au feu.. boudin noir
The star steak au poivre or oeuvre as they make fresh tartare
Mussel frites hustle.. boozy bustle.. shellfish tussle of a bistro
Cassoulet with pomme puree then creme brulee classics spar
Foie gras a mardi gras or bizarre faux pas in brasserie bazaar
Pastry crew Michelin route could be choux or tasty en croute
Never hasty flavour douche a louche croquembouche maestro
Pouting fondue goo spouting fountains on mountains outing
Creamy tartiflette or steamy andouillette from piggy toilette
Forget Pret get a better baguette cornichons raclette touting
What’s more francois then petit pois or dreamy dauphinoise
Carbs shouting.. barbs flouting.. baked camembert scouting
No doubting dishes with calories sprouting diets are a routing
For some it’s foodie hell for me Heaven..my true blue belle
Fruit de Mer in that terracotta apparel has me over a barrel
Travel under the spell crustaceans relations you fell.. unravel
Shell fish fresh from saline swell my divine dell in La Rochelle
No askance glance at the chance for your palette to dance
In a trance at how they enchant stuff always buff & enhance
Know in advance their cultural stance.. revolution..the lance
Saw red aristocrats dead off with their head no longer prance
Instead perchance adored smorgasbord hoard vive la France
Brighter than the most powerful star
At this time of the clone of the day --
The night in which children want to play
On streets where nothing would ever mar
The excitement in patintero*.
Your borrowed light keeps them stop and go.
Your being's mystified all the world
Since humans began to ask questions.
They each had contrasting conclusions
About what you are made of and hold:
For a blurry eye, you were a star;
Curiosity sees plainly the far.
'Til some laws speak of you and the tide,
The amount of bleeding of a wound,
The Earth's sun-centered merry-go-round,
An all the principles you abide.
Silent are they in the woman's womb
And about how the hill's spring could climb.
Dexterity let the rockets fly
And told them to land on your surface,
Leaving footprints nothing can erase
But the wind of doubt and rain of lie.
They should have carried a long, long strand
And left the one end where I stand.
Your shape is malleable to sunlight
And the place in the path that you take --
New, quarters, full for calendar's sake.
Your absence is a meaningless night
For an artist wanting your crescent
In his oeuvre with a black content.
At times you affront the Sun you owe
The magnificence you have at night;
At solar eclipse you seem to fight
Or, like a large serpent, to swallow
The burning and benevolent Sun.
A pagan would loudly beat his drum.**
I am afraid that you will be lost.
Our children will never play at night.
Some small islands will be out of sight.
The unborn will choose to be a ghost.
The Earth of life will miss its best friend,
Walking the path with chaotic trend.
* Patintero is a local team game in the Philippines.
** According to some folks, the Sun is being swallowed by a large serpent during the solar eclipse.
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
doth paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic, and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape, either authentic or copy cat.
The light breaks free from winter’s bone
to cast its warmth; to life atone,
to warm the dark; to thaw the chill,
to synthesize through chlorophyll,
a dormant seed to resurrect,
and coax a soul from introspect.
Awake! And breathe the wafting spice
of lilac buds and wild rice,
the lavender; the orange puccoon,
the sweet of honeysuckle bloom.
An overture, the sparrows sing,
to celebrate the oeuvre of spring;
while wind and weeping willow dance
to promises of new romance.
Come alive! Draw in your breath,
let winter die a noble death.
The seeds of yesterday are strewn;
it does not do to weep and croon.
If you seek, so shall you find,
as true for darkness as divine.