Long Paean Poems
Long Paean Poems. Below are the most popular long Paean by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paean poems by poem length and keyword.
Scented Leaves
A garden lost, in the footsteps of time,
Beckons from a garden of scented leaves
Remembering perfection in the cool of the evening,
Memories awaking long dormant memories
Now redeemed by scars;
A path that ends in gates reopened
To walk beneath an arch of aromatic wonder
Re-birthing wisps of fragrant balm
Lost in time, long past the birth of light,
To walk in solitude past temptation of fallen brittle leaves
Unscented;
With each day now an echoing paean raised
In one voice without discord
Of roars or snarling fears grabbing space
Or saving daylight demanding domination;
Clarity in naked transparency –
No need to cover original beauty –
Night at one with the daystar
While sun and moon and stars hold hands
To step in neat circles within the celestial perfume of praise
Like a garland of scented leaves woven in this sacred space;
Where summer, fall, winter, spring
Revolve in mystery with not one
Day or drop of rain out of place –
No intrusion of wilting heat or blustering cold,
Work or wrenching pain,
Intrude upon the oneness by wilting petals
That flower above the arbor of scented foliage;
No separation from the original plan,
The hand that drew up from the chaos
This design in the rich bouquet of creation
Turns back to be entwined again
In the fragrance of a perfect smile floating like flora before eyes reopened -
A signature written in a perfumed garden -
One heartbeat beating in perfect synchronicity
With hearts reunited in the evening breeze
Not lost like a snowflake on a summer highway –
A teardrop in sea of sand –
Eternal covenant,
Love and passion waking in one body -
Intimacy among the scented leaves.
Date – November 14, 2019
Contest – Scented Leaves
Sponsor – Kim Rodrigues
Framed in the reverential stillness of nature
Does the moon approach the golden orb
To pay homage to the bright life-giver
Blotting out as it does so its rays in obeisance
Displaying in that transient moment of darkness
Nature's very dependence on those shafts of sunlight
Until its fiery corona wreathes the disc of the moon
To prove which one is the power behind our planet's throne
Until that moment occurs when the corona flares
Silence reigns to show that the subordination of the animal kingdom
Derives from the supreme power of our sun
As the momentary blackout does define.
We have watched the birds abandon their birdsong
As they scurry silently across the sky to seek shelter
Their wings beating so swiftly in flight
Once the shroud veiling the sun slips smoothly away
A paean of praise swells from their throats
Ringing out to eclipse every other dawn chorus
To welcome the return of our planet's sovereign
This rare phenomenon reminds us of the sun's power
To both nurture and to destroy whatever lives upon our earth
Wildfires on the floor of our only true home
Can be vengeful land cruel
When we transgress the sacred boundaries
We have for so long chosen to ignore.
Those golden rays, brought to life to keep
Our alma mater strong and vital,
Turn rogue to punish us for our failure to stick to its diktats
If we continue as we have been doing for so long
Our species will be consigned to perpetual darkness
Let the temporary darkness of the recent eclipse
Remind us of how much we owe to the radiance
Of Our Father ,the Sun
Billy Collins wrote a poem,
A roll call of the dead.
The TV brought their faces up
To match the names he read.
His paean was so poignant;
With simplicity and power,
He honored all the victims
Of our nation’s darkest hour.
I listened to him, mesmerized.
He conjured such a mood
That anybody watching
Would be somber and subdued.
My husband turned to me and said,
“Now that’s a top-notch poet,”
Implying I’m not in that league,
As if I didn’t know it.
I tip my hat to Billy.
To my husband I replied
That lesser talents still possess
Some purpose they provide.
And so I write my thoughts in rhyme
Which somehow satisfies,
Despite the fact my lesser skills
This work exemplifies.
Happy May Day, all you PS boys and girls...EVOE!
Squeeze a cherry and let it sit,
And don't forget to take out the pit.
Let it ferment,
At least a day as a rule,
To give it some zing
And a kick like a mule.
Do the same with the blackberry,
There on the vine,
Then fill full the flagons
With festival wine.
From cherry to berry
We'll ramble along,
Our cups full of hooch,
Our young hearts full of song.
Inside the tubs
The fruit still ferments.
Those juices have uses
To enhance our intents
To revel with Bacchus,
The god of the vine.
With each quaff of the vino
We erupt into rhyme.
Be it barley and hops,
Or cherry or berry,
Let flow freely the brew
Whilst we drink and make merry.
Tomorrow's regret
Is tonight's joyful song,
The flesh may be weak, boys,
But the spirits are strong.
Author's note: I'm just doing a bit of reminiscing with this one, dear readers, remembering all those Sunday afternoon "beer busts" and "ice cream socials" that added so much flavor to my university experience. Also suggested by a story on the local news some time ago about the theft of a great number of cherries off trees in a private backyard here. No evidence to suggest if they were destined for pies or, perhaps, spirits like Kirsch or Maraschino. A Wikipedia moment for those who don't know: Bacchus is the Greco-Roman (Dionysus to the Greeks) deity of the grape harvest, winemaking, and wine, and of ritual madness and ecstasy. He was a real party animal.
Freely forming metrical mainstays
poetic occasion to phrase
the fairer and gentler sex,
thus the following turns of phrase
to bestow acknowledgement
regarding wonderful wise ways
of collective she who assays
to create safe/secure home/ hearth
as bedrock and fount of ample
maternal duties tiredly sashays
with keeping house receiving praise
the second Sunday each May, her
tired body sprawled on chaise
lounge, perhaps basking in solar rays
communing with Gaia, who whiz
bruiting with sky goddess
defying forecasters prediction, no slate grays
pose dampening effect on huzzahs
regaling torchbearer diploid as amaze
zing newlife, where loving labor pays
more than fine spun gold cherishing
offspring in her nurturing ways.
Paean dutiful daily deference, I dole
ensconced with pineapple getup
surfing the cyber sea, this hyperbowl
lee, yet deserved dignity deifying dames,
who bear brunt whole
ding potent biological reproductive role
de facto duty honorably decreed
tribute paid despite commercialized
money making hyped up rigamarole,
nonetheless yours truly accentuates sole
sans, progenitor of human race
saddled with disproportionate/ unfair toll.
Streams of water
at diurnal disposal,
drip
dolce far niente.*
Lavish fill
of cavernous sink—
flotsam thoughts.
Spring up, O well!
Sing about it,
about the well that the princes dug,
that the nobles of the people sank—
the nobles with scepters and staffs.**
Paradise, O living water!
Songs bursting from pipes.
Wanderings soon over.
Like valleys they spread out,
like gardens beside a river,
like aloes planted by the Lord
like cedars beside the waters.
Water will flow from their buckets;
their seed will have abundant water.***
Water’s free
moving, soothing.
Lovely sprinkler,
O lovely splash!
Dare poet’s eyes
take time
to ponder; her lips
pursue splendor
of fountain paean.
10/11/2021
*pleasant relaxation in carefree idleness
**Numbers 21:17-18 NIV
***Numbers 24:6-7 NIV
Lustrously exposed, save the lamp posts;
How inviting...shadows of two
wrapped in pearly silver---
a moving photograph in pastel colors
framing a moment's rendezvous
as dusk filters the pavement
riqht where bodies shimmer undercover :
Trees wave at the moon for traces of bliss
on a byway of sinuous motion,
the silhouettes hazy vet lightly engaged
in malleable outlines when hours
linger to wait for an affair's finale
past the radius of lamp posts ,
the eerie gray from night's paean
seeps the view, collapsing into bloodied glass...
A forlon figure stands alone
...while the tint of intimacy
pours its last glow.
Written: June 25, 2023
______________________________________________________________
April noises and dawn heart roused me,
A symphony of awakening, yet I felt misery.
Confusion lingered such a cloud in my mind.
Yet I still desire morning comfort, which I find.
Spring sounds in the fall are a marvel to behold.
Life's wonders amaze me; my spirit is untold.
Youth, such as spring, filled with vibrant cheer,
But the forties, a season of alter, draw near.
The wind blows a flower without paean or reason.
Summer's honey-laden fruit recalls life's cannily reunion.
Such as poet's song, I crave secrecy and the unknown.
To accept the necessity, my impatience has outgrown
Today, I seek patience—the art of waiting.
In this need, bending of cosmos is dimly creating.
With spry passion, your eyes perceive stillness.
As mind unravels a mystery, an avowal to life's richness.
Beauty defined my universe, and ugliness was despised.
But mild years have lifted the veil and opened my eyes.
What I deemed nasty and odious, a blinder on my sight,
Wool in my ears, blocking out the unfamiliar light.
As a child, I loved flowers; their innocence was so pure.
But now I view their thorns, guarding their allure.
Without protection, they would wither and die.
A reminder that innocence needs to be fortified.
"Winter is a thief," I declared as a child.
robbed the earth of her sun-woven garment, leaving her wild.
Now that I grasp the sense of rebirth and rejuvenation,
The wind ripped away the aged, giving a fresh creation.
"How elfin am I?" I pondered in my youth's naive bliss.
Grasping the sun and stars is within reach—a divine kiss.
Age has brought my youth closer, bridging the gap.
The size of aloneness weighs little—just a faint tap.
In my youth, the moon and tides held sway.
Controlling my every move, guiding the way.
But now that I stand firm on this strand of life,
Roots seek the earth's heart, reaching for rife.
That Salad Went Right Through Me
I've always wanted to write a poem called
“That Salad Went Right Through Me”.
And I would wager upon its best destiny:
To begin with, there is the Universal Theme--
For who has not gurgled around a conference table
at half past the last radish scrap?
Who, once stalled, has not
persistently punched the flusher
to muffle the borborygmus din?
But on a loftier note, I prefer
to think of my paean emblazoned
in the annals of first line indexes,
where, as one wanders lonely as a cloud
over dactyls and tropes,
“That salad went right through me”
trots right off the page
demanding a fervid flip to its leaf.
And future discourse plied at workshops,
and other such rarefied privies of poesy
might thusly include:
"Did you write a poem for the class today?"
Yes...“That Salad Went Right Through Me”
"Well then, you should consider the cheesecake."
viridescent wrench
adventitious
sparks prompt
yet
cloned camouflage
for psyche
rue’d quandary
withered wisps
nebulous
blind sweep
to bolster
plangent paean
of
helium hinged
extraneous
life sojourn
brazen folly
as
crimson cordon
ushers blurred
mystic squall
quirky quilt
engulfing
behemoth blemish
post sequence
encrypted kismet
punctual launchpad
to
wizard woo
violin mesmerizing
allusive pluck
sun-dried spiccato
bouncing bow
on
ear adorned
murmuration
intaglio instant
pregnant alms
luxuriant
gazillion gust
oe’r
hint endowed
sky syndicate’s
phantom limb
an
opulent cascade
ubiquitous umbra
bequeathing
lush serendipity
propitious prism
shadow conjuror
of
lilac lavishness
tangibly material
as
cerebral chakra
intuits rapt
sublime sublimation