Long Ombre Poems
Long Ombre Poems. Below are the most popular long Ombre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ombre poems by poem length and keyword.
I gaze beyond the phasing face
of the nebulous horizon,
searching in clamorous silence
for a hypnotic glimpse
of your poetic sparks ~ lost,
placed within the kohl-dust
of dreariness dressed
in deceitful dancing diamonds,
like layered silver and gold,
seared by Zeus’s thunderous wrath,
leaving memories engraved
in satanic sapphires
across the tempestuous teal
soaked in surging tears
unshed and unseen...
I’ve long been fighting
demons masked as the raven visage
of my bleeding silhouette,
preaching kindness whilst feeding
my soul with venomous verses ~
the poisoned truths of past turbulence.
But I refuse to drown in despair.
I will dance through the
dimmed spheres ~ eclipsed and torn ~
to reach the amorous arms
of compassion,
awaiting amidst splitting sorrow.
And when it rains,
my heart quivers,
haunted by inner thoughts;
my mind paints lines of love
in darkness and disarray,
for I fear never seeing
the saffron light on
the moon’s tender lips.
And in the midst of
p u s h i n g and p u l l i n g,
trapped in aching coldness,
afraid of losing the warm,
golden strands of roseate dusk,
I hide and fade like
love’s heat at twilight,
burying the poetic longing
within storms of melancholy,
waiting for another
cup of coffee at sunset ~
where your name ricochets
like reveries of romance
and your voice reverberates
like musical mists of monsoon,
carving an ambience
of delicate desires
tying me to the ombre amber
s i n g i n g songs
of solace, forevermore....
Sea at Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer
Van Gogh sat staring at the choppy waters
Nothing yet? His brother asked. He did not reply.
He was in artist mode.
Picked up a brush and began
Splashing white capped waves
Hostile swirling wind especially above fishing boat
Angry storm began taking form
So angry the sails were gone from the boat
Van Gogh was in another world; he could hear no one
Bright titanium white horse emerged at the water’s edge
dark delivery wagon and loan figure made a solid contrast
Van Gogh began using wider curvier strokes,
blending one color after another in ombre fashion
His ideas coming faster and faster now
The sky began taking on new colors, new shades, new hues.
He added a reflection of the boat in the water
Five women waiting for their men on shore
A field of wheat leaning toward the west, torn up by the wind.
It was a furious painting, stormy and magnificent.
He painted this in 1888, the eight such painting
this year, and one of his favorites.
But of course he was not satisfied with it.
So he had to create another one.
So quickly gone our perfect day,
softly fading in ombre gray;
we loved, lying in grasses sweet,
mist mountain shrouded and discreet.
Pink pearled the clouds like china clay--
so quickly gone our perfect day--
dangled above the mountain rim;
pearled the wine kisses I offered him.
We strolled hay scented meadows, fair;
he laced white daisies through my hair;
so quickly gone our perfect day
for night swooped down, dark bird of prey.
Sometimes a day almost like that
makes me wistful, heart acrobat
contriving to return that way,
so quickly gone our perfect day.
Copyright, January 23, 2016
Like a rippling lake, her azure silk dress flows,
splashing gentle waves with her delicate spin
into his awestruck arms as the music slows.
As he holds her closely, whiffing flowery skin,
she whisks him away to a sapphire sky
where ombre blues blend and collecting stars grin.
Her lake dress reflects, to his wonderment eye,
heron wings flapping within, in playful drifts,
as her mirroring heart begins to fly.
Her sash bow embraces a lifetime of gifts
as it wraps his treasure so beautifully
in the dazzling pleasantries of wordless wisps.
Azure radiance croons as her hips taunts me
in that dancing blue dress under their marquee.
Serging through life, I whipstitch, weft, and welt,
But always, my thoughts are pick-threading.
As stippled patches of emotion rise and fall in me,
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me
Just too many scars.
The mindless mind stresses itself through mental snares,
I waste away beneath it all, piecing and pondering.
Where the struggling soul and pleating body meet,
I seek significance in life’s lucid-lined layers.
Confronting my inner fears as an owneress,
Time leaves its cursed mark in starched stitches that cut.
Each moment experienced is like a closing zipper,
My calm exterior ridges are often rough, ready, and ruffled.
A life full of scars.
While unique experiences blend like transient ombre shades
My essence feels like a needled complex knit.
Memories form patterns from life’s four-patches
Challenges scissors cut are like shredded sharp diamonds.
Yet more paths diverge along life’s shifting chevrons
I strive to fit somehow; this square is what I do.
Yet my world stands out like tri-recs blocks
Creating stars and pineapples to fight fifty-four forty.
Scars that are hidden and visible, surface and deep.
Like trapezoids, I sense those oblong obstacles loom
Worth or less by my own limited gauge, I measure.
I pray each day new chapters begin casting on
While others exhaust, reaching their bind-offs.
I do seek a pattern master, and I need to pray for one.
I contemplate constantly along selvages of thoughts.
They hang like dangling tails…
I start to visualize my purpose slowly seaming.
Look as I whipstitch, weft, and welt through life, serging.
As I graciously and sagaciously test life’s many swatches,
I devote my life to the Master Seamster the…
Healer of scars.
I’ve dreamed of you so much,
I’ve walked so much, talked so much,
Loved your shadow so much,
That I have nothing left of you.
All I can do is be a shadow among the shadows,
To be one hundred times more shadow than a shadow,
To be the shadow that will come and go
In your sun-spangled life.
--Robert Desnos
Translated by Christopher Johnston
LE DERNIER POÈME
J’ai rêvé tellement fort de toi,
J’ai tellement marché, tellement parlé,
Tellement aimé ton ombre,
Qu’il ne me reste plus rien de toi.
Il me reste d’être l’ombre parmi les ombres,
D’être cent fois plus ombre que l’ombre,
D’être l’ombre qui viendra et reviendra
Dans ta vie ensoleillée.
--Robert Desnos
Perche' di notte non riesco a dormire;
ah, potro' mai sognare un mare scintillante
e stringerti in queste braccia cosi' calde
e non cercare piu' quella luna di neve?
Why at night am I unable to sleep;
ah, could I ever dream of the glittering deep
and hold you in these warm arms and not
look for that snowy moon so unbright?
Perche' di notte non ti sveglio, non ti accarezzo
dolcemente e farti diventare il mio cucciolo?
Mi negherai tutti i baci deliziosi, tutti i respiri dell'anima,
e non tremerai nemmeno al tocco delle mie dita?
Why don't I want to wake you up
caress you gently and be my pup?
Will you deny me all the delicious kisses, all the sighs,
of your soul, and not tremble at the touch my fingers?
No, primavera mia, fammi ancora sorridere
e credere che nulla e' cambiato nei nostri pensieri;
che tutto ci ricorda dei momenti piu' intimi:
basta solo che tu mi guardassi piu' teneramente!
No, my spring, make me smile again
and believe that nothing has changed in our thoughts...
that all reminds us of intimate moments;
it wouid be enouh that you looked at me more tenderly!
Perche' di notte le ombre crescenti e mistiche mi fanno
sentire brividi sulla pelle se fosse pieno inverno?
Perche' di notte sfuggo and un' altro magico incatesimo
che mi puio' fare tuo per altre notti senza vento?
Why at night the increasing and mystic shadows
make me feel chills like it's midwinter in hell?
Why at night do I escape anther magic spell
that can make me yours for other windless nights?
Perche' sono rimasto agli estremi confini dell'ignoto,
di una solitidine immensa che non offre un comforto cosi' disperato?
Perche io sembro di vagare verso una meta senza sentire paura?
Perche di notte la stessa strada semba piu' lunga e piu' oscura?
Why have I remained at the extreme boundaries of the unknown,
of an immense solitude that refuses to offer a comfort so forlorn?
Why I seem to wander towards a destinaton without having fear?
Why at night the same path seems much longer and much darker?
This Aphrodite rose
slowly unfurls
pink ombre balms
of sun-kissed
springfalls,
as the luminous
lake of tears
cascade in
exotic wreaths
of honey-soaked
velvety sepals,
there succulent seeds
of zestful dawns adorned
our silken sheets
across luscious meadows
sprinkled with
glistening cosmic dust.
Yet neon streaks
of longing unveiled;
romanticized rainbows
engrossed within
fire opal clouds,
awaiting to drizzle
pleasing odes,
amalgamated with
drops of opium
meant to reveal
skeletons and secrets,
sculptured as
sultry souvenirs
of seasonal streams.
But ripples of reminiscences
reflect how
you and I
weathered howling winds
through unseelie storms
of oppressed lovers,
gliding in sync
to the echoes
of midnight screams,
rising from
sumptuous seas.
So, tonight, as curtains
fall in
hues of dusky dews,
cover me in sunrise
when the bleeding heart,
of blue-laced estuaries,
rhymes with
sangria vesper time,
where tomorrow’s
ocean ferries
purge prose
that never denies.
Let fervent
pearls pulverize
my colossal tarp
as the morning glows;
I ponder,
do mourning petals show,
the folly of
moonlit melancholy?
For you’ve devoured
the alluring depths
of campfire stories,
burning
untouched edges
within our twin souls,
whilst
cosmos
trembled
and sighed
in poetic ecstasy ~
we seized our
unsung melody…
For this
remains
as an
untold version
of our
dangerous glory~
etched on cupid’s
amethyst arrow.
Struck! Evening murk ink sky infultrated
Weapon copper key turns lock apricot
Crystal busy bunched clouds fluro painted
Fleshy salmon jump aboard paper yacht
Storm dealt in spledour of unicorn wings
Rooftop hooves unheard by screen bound many
Peach plumage gallops gaily, ombre brings
Daisy daggers to grey ordinary
Pirates fear nearness to pole flamingo
Neon flag slaps unsuspecting sailors
Phospher aqua plankton blown where wind goes
Rosey riot ocean show's outrageous
Rust runs from pegasus horn, orange spark
Spilt pink electric brush strokes puncture dark
30th August
Thank Jesus
for this Show
Somber slate clouds blanket the longing skies,
whilst wisps of snow paint the frozen ground below.
Ombre leaves barrenly speckle slumbering trees,
glistening sheets of ice coat their fading existence.
Another bitter winter blows in,
like thistle tangling around forsaken irises.
Threads of changing seasons cling to my coat.
Taking a deep breath, I exhale, watching it hang in the evening air.
“Anywhere but here” rings in my head.
Empty coldness soaks into my soul,
as an icy blue-white depression takes hold.
Loneliness rests upon abandoned courtyards;
decaying rose petals become fossils
between layers of winter’s aquamarine verglas,
bathed by the snowglow of another illuminated midnight.
Death’s cold fingers trace my spine,
submerging me further into the gelid grip of despair,
massacring any hope of escape from this torment.