Long Papery Poems
Long Papery Poems. Below are the most popular long Papery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Papery poems by poem length and keyword.
I …
am obtuse angle -
once lost … wandering
an indigent urchin of Valhalla’s streets
a smudge on the heavenly lens
and yet …
made worthy by the art of
your papery hands
as they place gilded cobbles ‘neath my feet
tear-washed and baptized
to tread where gods devoured their days
spinning men’s dreams to thistle
and puffing them gone …
all for granted -
all aged by apathy and arrogance
their own vile victims …
you have brought me to know -
to find wonderment
and to see for myself, their ruin
a calamity of conceit
that we tiny things paid dearly for
we bottom-pocket contrivances
tenders of oblivion
meant only to kiss the toes of what
they deemed precious …
and still, strolls here now in their stead
one such costless creature
but priceless too
for the sake of the one path they
could never weave
a gold-shine track paved to immortal
existence by the
care and kindness of gentle fingers -
hands aged by the tares of three lifetimes
yet soft with gentleness …
your simple act of humility and grace
and the sacrifice that is never
a sacrifice -
the only key to The Gate
and the one treasure that in all
their divine majesty
escaped them …
love.
Copyright © 2025 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art of Mom’s and my hands created by Yours Truly - filtering effects at Prisma / Lightroom )
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Suspended like a cataract’s pale lens,
*the cold-hearted orb rules the night~
its blue-gray light pooling
into the hollow of his heart.
Fourteen envelopes stacked like unmarked graves.
He fingers the topmost seal, the wax brittle as hope~
the moon bleaching
their blue edges to bone.
What ghosts swim in this lunar milk?
No answers come~
only the ache of his ink
confessing:
These are *letters I’ve written, never meaning to send~
each a whispered confession,
unspoken prayers of my soul
paper cathedrals
built on the fault line of my heart.
small, papery ghosts, haunted by the weight
of unspoken things~
each a brittle testament,
a love that breathes only in the amber of my memory.
each one unfolded
read in the stillness of lunar milk.
each page I lift,
the moonlight dissects each I’m sorry
each one swirls in specks of dust
where your absence hangs.
I see your ghost in every autumn leaf.
I remember our nights on sheets of *white satin.
Silence and regret are suffocating me.
Come home…
he rewrites in paragraphs
…till dawn bleeds gray.
few children's hurray
papery plants' butterflies
pixies on flowers
all boys dressed as gnomes
girls all in fairies fashion
Sunday party's on
halogen shines sweet
as Sunlight shines in bright day
arranged in a room
Date:20/06/2016
Little People - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
A field afire
papery petals glow like ruby votive candles
a collection of cupped solar flames
vowed to shine despite the dew before dawn
evaporating any doubt the sun would rise
the mist would lift
consoling one in darkness
Rising up where wildflowers past have fallen
victim to soil fallow and shallow
your Spring growth resurrects my hope
as your resurgent blooms stretch to the heavens
I awaken thawed from the frost of loss
regenerated by dreams
of undying love sacrifice and joy
O poppy blood red
vast your bed a symbol of life and death
and imagination.. you inspire me with your irony
your roots belie a feathery foliage
anchored though airy
light and looking like you might take flight
but spirited blossoms stand an army of angels
earthbound and blushing
My breath stops when I gaze upon you — yet
when I walk among your thronging whorls
grazed by your grace
my chest rises and falls
my bloodstream set ablaze
by the grandeur of your inner light
my heart rejoices with the voices of breezes
aswirl with a swish through your scarlet banners of peace
We share a savor for new-day chardonnay skies
tender the warm tinge before summer’s singe
rhythmic air moves us with singsong sighs
a swaying dance of sepaled celebrants
with nary a fresh bud trod upon
crimson and sunrise spirit and flesh
raising palms and psalms in thanks and praise
festive in rebirth and remembrance
where tears fall not as rain but as
c o n f e t t i
as my heart carries the bouquet of your immortal beauty
like a bride on her May wedding day
Susan Ashley
March 11, 2022
*Dedicated to my father who gently passed on June 10, 2021.
You are loved and missed dearly, dad
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Spring Showers or Spring Flowers
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
*nary: not, or not any
(Image: Glow with pride: Express.co.uk)
Lisa, Leong and I were supposed to eat at a sushi place called “Bow Wow”. Lisa and I were coming back from our last class. I covered my face with the back of my hand and yawned as we reached the quad. Lisa put her phone in her jacket pocket and said, “She isn’t answering, I’ll go get her.” I nodded and gave her my backpack (we’re all suitemates).
I sat down, cross legged, under a (Japanese maple?) tree, arranging my skirt - the tree had shed most of its leaves, since I’d met it in September. A drift of papery bronze leaves spread out in all directions.
A breeze delicately swayed the tree branches, making flickering patterns of light in the shade. I went from sitting to lying down in the grass, angling for the most of the limited shade. The sky was subtly beginning to darken, as if an Instagram filter on the scene was being tweaked.
How many seasons has this tree observed, I wondered, with all the embellishments those brought - sun, rain, stars, rainbows and flickering, ever changing moons. ??All from within the limited, open sky frame of the quad. A tree has to be patient - and tough - I thought, there’s no rescue from the New England elements.
The whistling breeze seemed like music and the tree began to dance for me - its branches became waving arms, its leaves making jazz hands - I laughed and clapped. It made a twisting bow at the waist, like a performer.
I woke up when I heard Lisa say, “‘Here she is!” - as if I’d been lost.
On spewing wave, our departing ride
Crazed currents crack, an azure slide
Freedom mingles in sea foam seethe
Cobra throat coast gulps river relieve
Estuary entry rests, rushing ruthless
Canoe oar dip downtempo soothe us
Convulsing closing, seen from stern
To mayhem mouth we shan’t return
Silver silt filters salt, lake lap littoral
Ranges ahead etch graduating blues
Drift beside reeds, bird pews hymnal
Harp strum seraphim strike chords
Nacreous nematodes writhe towards
Tiny sun centre lace tutus feverfew
Pirouette pirogue wet on dawn dew
Papery apron snapdragon bonnets
Bloom ten a stem syllable sonnets
Cut log capsule covets its heritage
Forested foothills fix ship wreckage
Fir hands welcome hung hammock
Cosy ocean recoil, mountains titanic
Sixth of November
- upstream -
I …
am obtuse angle -
once lost … wandering
an indigent urchin of Valhalla’s streets
a smudge on the heavenly lens
and yet …
made worthy by the art of
your papery hands
as they place gilded cobbles ‘neath my feet
tear-washed and baptized
to tread where gods devoured their days
spinning men’s dreams to thistle
and puffing them gone …
all for granted -
all aged by apathy and arrogance
their own vile victims …
you have brought me to know -
to find wonderment
and to see for myself, their ruin
a calamity of conceit
that we tiny things paid dearly for
we bottom-pocket contrivances
tenders of oblivion
meant only to kiss the toes of what
they deemed precious …
and still, strolls here now in their stead
one such costless creature
but priceless too
for the sake of the one path they
could never weave
a gold-shine track paved to immortal
existence by the
care and kindness of gentle fingers -
hands aged by the tares of three lifetimes
yet soft with gentleness …
your simple act of humility and grace
and the sacrifice that is never
a sacrifice -
the only key to The Gate
and the one treasure that in all
their divine majesty
escaped them …
love.
sun …
glints off sweaty trickles as
they plop … plop …
little lad’s littler fingers tickling a
tide pool’s papery face
things of mysterious intention, darting
there to here to there …
wide eyes wider in amazement
tiny thrums quick’ning
dividing breaths
like swells divide the time
and tides …
a splash and a grasp, tightening
some small watery beast
cold-red cheeks blooming wide to
parody the dazzled bay
grins and giggles to mock the black-backs
for this shrimpy monster, squirming
is the prize of a wee fist
gamboling its way to
proffer some mad-mommy shrieks -
slimy and squiggly and
oh, so wondrous!
hunter, home from the hill
Ahab and his white sea demon
perfectly prideful,
invested surety of a silly smile
warmed by the sooty
afternoon …
sun.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 9, 2024
IMPERFECT ROSE*
the imperfect rose,
once vivacious and colorful under the summer sun,
its petals are now wilted, its colors faded and gone.
its time has passed
its dance is done.
the imperfect rose cries many petals,
last vestiges of her beauty wait for the wind to carry them to their rest.
each petal papery and thin
lies on the lush green grass, its veins blushing
glowing pink in the setting sun and to silence it doth humbly acquiesce.
even in decay, the imperfect rose holds a certain grace,
a reminder of glory days now past.
rose petals may be temporary
but are eternal in memories of love and sharing
enough to weather the storm, to outlast.
the imperfect rose
has thorns that make one bleed.
forgive the rose of its imperfections with compassion
for of her thorns the imperfect rose doth gladly concede~
we are all petals of imperfection, might you accede?
*Note:I originally posted this poem at Poetry Soup in June 2025 then deleted it. It’s my original creation and was not plagiarized (poetrysoup.com/poem/imperfect_rose_1738035)
Snow draped folds like loose Cashmere curtains cover the evergreen boughs
pining for the lengthening days of each succeeding sunrise,
reticent to see the cold of night fall once again on the lonely landscape.
In this fallow world of darkness quiet is the norm, hushed silence,
nothingness, invading the shadows that fall ominously across the reaching branches
giving a sense of preternatural sleep to each living creature, each plant,
inhabiting the frigid winter's lonely, desolate abode.
Surreptitiously, the awakening begins, slowly and without notice,
Cyclamen hidden deep in the forest break free from their frozen bed of bounteous soil
oblivious to the naked dreaming deciduous trees that surround them.
Malaise broken, they reach their softly painted petals to the warmth of the sun
in perfect unison dancing the Danse Macabre to remind winter of its inevitable demise.
Narcissus will soon send forth his papery white blossoms to mock the
glow of the radiant gleen of the melting frost.
Summer still distantly drowsing cares not for the struggle of life born
out on frozen winter days and Autumn is but a memory now glowering in its
ostentatious robes of leafy brilliance; though, the
nor'easter may yet blow, just look and you'll see the signs, Spring is coming soon.
03/23/17