Long Palette Poems
Long Palette Poems. Below are the most popular long Palette by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Palette poems by poem length and keyword.
Take a walk with me within the forest
gravel path, laced in peach and yellow leaves.
Inhale the spirit of air it surrounds.
Listen to the crunch and shift of coarse gravel,
see the dust rise upwards beneath our shoes,
and feel the cool wind blow our hair across our faces.
Stop, view of the bank, against large white rocks
and tall green and withered sedge blades. Listen
to the hastening heartbeat resonance
of transparent aquamarine, cool river,
where it runs deep, flowing downhill.
Tree limbs full of a brilliant autumn palette
of colors sway as the breeze quickens its pace.
Take a walk with me and breathe a piece
of heaven that beckons and awakens my spirit.
10/17/2020
Like a meteor in slow motion, she begins her descent to the abyss below the horizon from which she emerged at sunrise.
As she descends her strength slowly decreases, but her glory does not abate.
About an hour before she disappears from view, she again plays her tantalizing game. Descending slowly, like an aircraft touching down on a runway.
She gives the impression that she does not want to exit the stage.
As she nears the horizon, she splashes a dazzling display of colors on the canvass of the sky. The palette of colors and variety of patterns and scenes created by the light and the clouds is as mesmerizing as they were at sunrise.
Finally, this golden ball of fire touches down on the runway of the horizon, resplendent in her glory, turning the horizon to a brilliant orange, burnished bronze and a variety of shades of red and gold all mixed together.
As she sinks below the horizon, she seems to be playing a game of hide and seek as the dark clouds of evening creep over her.
Then suddenly, she is gone, but not without a trace, for her afterglow remains for quite a while after sunset.
Eventually the darkness of night prevails and we are left with only the memories of another beautiful sunset.
Your life and mine are mirrored by the sun, summarized as it is, as SUNRISE and SUNSET.
It is our Creator's plan that just like the sun, we should leave beautiful memories for loved ones, when our days are done.
So trust in the Lord with all of your heart and allow Him to direct your path.
Then when at last, your journey ends, you like the sun will leave the afterglow of a life service to God and your fellowmen.
An ancient mariner in the ocean of languid life,
I am sailing seemingly for agonized ages
in the limitless luminosity of sublime sunshine,
on the cruising course where the trying tempest rages.
On the sapphire swells of the swaying waves,
rising to the seamless sky, falling into furrow low,
my senile boat pitches, and I struggle hard
to keep on sailing, the voyage is veritably slow.
The scarlet sun goes down slowly cold and wet
at the endless edge of the sea in the speckled sky.
The rolling waves carry overturned palette on crest,
the cloud convoys blush as in the finagled air they fly.
The sky soon turns into hollow shades of grey,
permeates the shimmer of the falling dusk spark,
waning in the hued horizon for the night to fall,
creep in the timorous twilight with elements of dark.
I’ve promised the ocean I’ll reach the shore yonder,
I need to sail to the end of my time not quite far.
Forlorn in the unknown ocean losing the bearing,
I search solemnly for the omnipresent pole star.
I discover in the end the guiding beacon
in the domain of divine light hidden within me.
Tracing the destined course to the final destination,
its fading flash I’ve steadfastly strived so long to see.
The wind on the sagging sail is sluggish,
drained of its driving draft it now blows slow.
Before the beleaguered boat becomes motionless,
to the precinct of my promise I must go.
Waiting for me there at the fated fringe of my time,
is the eternal realm of the heavenly shore.
I don’t know why as an ancient mariner for so long
in the tumultuous ocean I am for.
When the sky is blue, trees are green,
The flowers smile, have you ever seen?
Birds chirp, bees buzz, butterflies kiss,
World looks ravishing, full of bliss.
When trees are green, the sky is blue,
River murmurs a tale so true!
Busy squirrels race, here and there,
Frisky animals, never care!
When the sky is blue, and trees are green,
Children romp and swing - delightful scene!
Clouds glide, floating sailboats in sea,
A palette of colours for you and me !
In finest attire seasons appear
Arouse our senses, year after year
Koel sings - resonant and anew,
When trees glistening, the sky is blue.
October 30, 2022
"Be Creative"Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
FIRST PLACE
Spring rises and is reborn
with a warm, glowing morning sun.
May apples, marsh daisies, wild purple, yellow and white violets
peek from the earth with round glossy greens and flowers.
Wild scallions, stretch tall and gangly, feathering the air
as the scent of onions wafts through newly cut grass.
Birds sing and seek a mate
then gather leaves, dry grass and twigs
for nesting softness for new laid eggs.
March winds gust freely from soft to subtle breezes
as April rains imbibe the dry brown earth.
Summer ventures back and forth on the sidelines,
hot and burning to lead prolific days
spewing vegetation, nature and humankind as they wait.
Life draws in the sun
and perspiration flows.
It splashes frolicking in the orange, red sun
failing to be chilled or cooled
as activity and growth spurt forth.
Summer stretches May to June,
then July to August and September,
The calendar, no longer true to its flow
lingers on through Indian summer
cool yet warming October.
A scene of awesome palette colors displayed
rising bold and brazen before an ice blue sky.
The trees of autumn appear in softly blushing colors
to November and December bleeds of hues
peaches, oranges, apple reds and umbers
Chrysanthemum, asters and blooms
bid farewell and a last summer goodbye to fall.
Winter drops down, released by a cold, north wind
that freezes what remains at the change of seasons.
Barren, naked trees and empty gardens
bland the once lavished earthen shades.
Prior months now fade away
hardened by December and January chills
prepping for the New Years snow
It lags January into February
bringing accumulations of ice and snow.
Everything sleeps, resting
huddled low in earth and home
waiting patiently for spring to return.
In Verona, his hand’s steady and grand.
Grateful eyes - he sees the gold in her.
With pomp regret, dear Mary’s knees, like sand.
The dynamite of God blows sin asunder.
The women carried her into life’s wake.
Her worldly goods, misunderstood, dismissed.
This Magdalene blushes fully awake.
She’s recognized - by Jesus’ heart she’s kissed.
The foreshadowing drop of jewelry -
the sudden shift of Mary’s soul - it’s light.
Her beauty breaks away from foolery.
The proud that scamped was blind - Jesus made right.
The colors on the artist’s palette toil,
release the scene of royal scent - rose oil.
2/1/2022
https://www.parkwestgallery.com/peter-nixon-favorite-painting/
Her trembling twilight
dims with streaking purple tears
bruised by youthful years of bleeding pain
hurting but never hugged—
locked in arms of atmosphere’s apathy
that smeared with fiendish fingers
a contusing plum palette
across any hope in her godforsaken horizon—
this sorrowful songbird
who sings with the shattered purity
of violin strains falling from Heaven
finds her bemoaning musical notes adrift—
lost on breezy deaf days
as she is once again thrown down
from the self-serving skyscape
by the hateful hands of wildcat winds.
In the deep inkwell
of lullaby-less lonely nights
where never a tender nursery rhyme
has ever set her free
are memories scribed of storm-battered days
and weighing heavily on Libra’s scales
are the injustices
of dreams she will never live
nor flights of fancy she will never take
as her sire of solar scorch and temper flare
—a warpath warrior against her springtime
sleeps soundly on a bloated bed
over-stuffed with betrayal and broken promises
while her merciless maternal moon—
distant and cloud covered
does not bother to wander the coal haze
with a lantern’s sharp beam
to cut through stranglehold-folds of darkness
to cast a light upon; to rescue her fractured form—
an angel beckons as breath and beat fade
her guardian as she passes through Earth's shadow
beyond the coldness of mother-moon's umbra
following to where warm sugar-stars soprano sing.
Tonight— a stricken sparrow
folds her fledgling wings never to fly again…
will land or air ever miss her?
In the tapestry of twilight, vibrant hues entwine,
Emerald whispers dance in the breeze,
Crimson aspirations burst like fireworks,
Each stroke of thought a vivid brush,
Painting joy across the canvas of my mind.
The ocean of dreams swells with cerulean waves,
Sapphire secrets linger, deep and alluring,
Golden rays pierce through the misty embrace,
Each splash a heartbeat, each ripple a song,
Inviting the soul to dive into boundless wonder.
A palette of fantasies blooms in radiant fields,
Violet petals unfurl in the warmth of the dawn,
Amber suns rise, igniting the horizon,
As laughter cascades like rainbows in spring,
Filling the air with a symphony of delight.
In this kaleidoscope realm, shadows lose their weight,
Colors blend in harmony, a joyous fusion,
Dreams unfurl like banners, bold and magnificent,
Carrying whispers of hope on their fluttering tips,
Each shade a promise of a day anew.
Together we journey through this vibrant expanse,
Where imagination reigns and spirits take flight,
With every heartbeat, a spectrum ignites,
Charting a course through realms of pure bliss,
In this world of dreams, we are forever alive.
What is the taste of happiness, ask the trees rooted in tale,
And the wind brings on southern wings answers hidden in crests.
Is it sweet, like golden apples from immortal orchards,
Or bitter, like the wine from cups of kings long gone?
Its color lies hidden in the palette of shy dawns,
Or perhaps it hides in the venom of fiery, impassioned nights.
Does it shine, golden, in fragments of azure dreams,
Or is a soothing blue, reflected in the lake without its match?
A fascinating weave, on the loom of the fleeting moment,
Happiness paints itself in unsettled hues, ever-changing.
Like the dew on the soul of a flower opening at dawn,
Or the tearing pain of a leaf lost in the autumn wind?
Like the whispers of the forest, which knows the world's ancient secrets,
It speaks in the language of falling stars and moonless nights.
Happiness charges the air with the magic of an earthly echo—
A song of simplicity, rising and getting lost among the clouds.
Beyond our sphere, jade rivers murmur, bathing dozens of worlds,
Happiness flows, leaving its imprint in the heart of every speck of stardust.
We must drink it thirstily, as an elixir of eternity,
Just as leaves absorb their fate alongside the sunlight.
The taste of happiness, a corolla blooming at the end of consecrated roads,
Sprouts from depths, seeking light, shyly unfolds.
Its color is a mosaic stretched across the sky, from sunsets to dawns.
A silvery droplet in the ocean of blue—a dance of freedom.
In every story born from the hand of a dreamer,
Happiness vibrates in unison with the heart of the world, on a celestial harp.
We only understand it when silence wraps us in its heavenly cloak,
And in the sacred quiet, the taste and color of happiness are revealed.
A noblewoman
who never sheds scars from fragile eyes,
you won’t hear her inner child cry.
A palette of purple pride hides horrific truths.
We hid behind a small frame, evading the regiment’s reign.
I used to watch you plant us with buds of hope and wonder why
you lived a life starved of chirping joy.
No rays from the serene sun shone upon you to thrive.
Mother, now I’m older and wiser,
I see your petals of pain pulsating in the sky,
losing love in intolerable ways
with no time for glistening goodbyes.
Your kin resided in a tyrannical site,
suddenly slipping silently into the soil.
Their deceptive departures make my blood cells boil.
You chose to linger with a taupe tyrant in a haunted house of hell,
never a penchant for letting your children run in the chill of the sangria storm.
For us to prosper, I now understand why you remained.
You never probed for a rescue, redemption, remedy,
or embarked on a journey for an assembly of tulip empathy.
Your wise words were not lost,
but I grieve for the blushing roses you never held.
I thank you for being a suppressed sunflower locked in a cell.
I know you weren’t under a sad spell
but striving for your offspring to bloom
in a world weighed down by harsh seasons.
The question of whether they prevail only devilish time will tell.