Long Paraffin Poems
Long Paraffin Poems. Below are the most popular long Paraffin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paraffin poems by poem length and keyword.
How effortless you seem to write
Under said paraffin oil and candor
lit background
It's almost as if one can hear the nib of
your feathered quill draped in ink
Scratch away at the parchment you
are scribing your every intricately woven
thought down upon
And with furrowed brow you try your
level best to articulate your true
purpose and it's meaning
Starring blankly at the ceiling for
any form of guidance in order to
speed the process of discovery
somehow up
With as many bites of paper as
ideas begun and started just as
soon discarded and tossed aside
As and for nothing but the truly
worthy will be deemed good enough
to survive the final edit and critical cut
Because once this here you're final
chapter is complete and time has
come to place your name upon the
docket
One best be sure that in time this
work if yours will stand the test
of time
And not come back to haunt you
when you're fledgling career falls
upon hard times and starts to
spiral down
And what at first seemed so effortless
it flowed from and out of every pour
of your soul and being
Seems ever rather more forced and
best described as clutching at straws
Than primacy electric totally off the
cuff and both flawed but at the same
time adorable eccentric and eclectic
Like something more akin to the
screen on a Kindle
Than justifiably bound in leather and
found primarily only on the shelves
of private well read library collector's
Who do so wishing to preserve notable
additions regarded as classic pieces
of literature that at all costs must be
preserved
Just incase this was the Author's one
and only work of substance
He then published and tried thereafter
but in vain to follow up
Which unfortunately over time drove
him to the point of virtual insanity
In the end he sadly left him unable
to even spell his name
Written: March 3rd, 2025 for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote" There is a moon inside every human being. Learn to be companions with it". By Rumi
************************
If I could I would fetch you
the moon on a spoon,
A silver ladle cradling
that celestial charm,
reflecting dreams woven in its light,
a beacon of hope,
glowing in the night sky.
With every dip,
I would capture stardust wonder,
sprinkling inspirations
across your path,
gently lowering the
heavens to your reach
to illuminate the beauty
within your grasp.
This spoon, an extension
of my heart's desire,
would gift you galaxies
beyond mere sight.
Each scoop a promise
of infinite possibilities,
for you are worthy
of such ethereal gifts.
If I could, I would fetch you
the moon on a spoon,
wished upon a distant star,
an angel longing as my plaything.
A paper lantern floating
akin to a balloon,
a magic wand in hand,
I would blow bubbles into fine glass jars,
sending them around the world
to shed a path of divine light.
Thinking of sweet ideas,
inspired by our celestial planet.
She took a spoon in a flurry
to dip in Milky Way cornets in a hurry,
Fetching her angel the moon,
solid and proud.
emotions weak but potions strong,
a dauber with dungarees smeared
from paraffin slopes, they trampled.
With poise unseen by iron-hooved men,
dreams floated high above
troughs and sparred skies.
The Artist’s Tower
In a tower a lonely poet sits
Memories of his past life elude his thoughts
The stifled scent of burnt paraffin clouds his thoughts
There is the light from candles which lit thousands of works
Flickering against paintings stored by unknown artists
The beauty of an eighteenth century meadow
The stark reality of people starving in a depression
All tell a story through an unspoken language
Reams of paper piled against the wall
Stories and poems long forgotten by those who created them
Did anyone ever read even one of them?
The poet sits, thinks and fantasizes in his own prison
Isolation to help him find the right words
The candle fades and grey smoke fills the air
As the light of the North Star filters through a dirty glass window
The poet writes the last word to his newest piece
It too ends up on the piles of discarded work
Because the piece is finished the poet rests
The candle waits for the next artist
There is always another artist who will hide in the tower
There always will be another story, poem or painting
All hidden, unseen in the tower
you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too
then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point
but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright
then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled
the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum
to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears
then the light of the social moon is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up
it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean
it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too
some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair
but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan
in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera
Jesus Christ and Karl Marx seek lost children in the City of Gold
In shackled shack with weight of broken bricks on tin roofed promises
she rest her head against the precious paraffin cooker empty and cold
Five children to feed no milk in once beautiful breasts life sour and rancid
abused and battered and her husband long gone in yesteryear’s crossfires
‘Tulinagwe’ is free from luxurious troubles plods on no fancy resides in
her township a voyage no carrier of progress and a storm with no sail
‘Mawuli’ lives close liberated from hardship quite posh in his mansion
a world away in marvellous marble box tree hedges protecting ascent
He rose manicured hands roses lawns perfumed clothing no sweat while
his gardener reaps thorns and oppression from inside walls’ dwelling
Born free after the fall of Apartheid his stars and his God have sheltered
adorned crowned zenith’s success a story from another page in the book
‘Mawuli’ lives resolute on ‘Tulinagwe’s shoulders brethren in union while
her dreams have dissolved and yet my free flight of fancy calls resurrection
For both in their names Christ shed his nails for Christ’s sake or for their
blood so let us be reminded that revolution does never start at the top
Has either read Shakespeare or for that matter the bible when ‘Tulinagwe’
has no privilege to read while 'Mawuli' browses his browser brokers his shares
Two sides of a hopeful reminder that Marx still inhabits money and freedom
and that the burden of change contains a message for all children of God
06th May 2017 written for ‘Fancy Free’-Contest
The pop group Heatwave, it seemed to me
(in 1970)
was dreadfully dull and boring too
(not at all incendiary)
so, with breath control and mind over matter,
(it didn't matter as I didn't mind)
to liven up the act and give it something new,
after much practice and repeating,
using self-made torches soaked in paraffin,
I taught myself how to do fire eating
and late that summer became
(tho' only the drummer)
'Keeper Of The Flame'.
Once, while on stage performing,
some sceptic in the audience shouted, "That's not really hot,"
so, determined to put him in his place
(he deserved all of what he got)
I gave him quite a fright when I flashed the flames in his face.
Then, '77 one fearful night in Bright Eye Band wearing tights
(a.k.a., Smooch on Halloween)
throwing all caution to the wind, as it was gauged just right,
the draft from a fan blowing across the stage set my hair alight.
Although not what I call apropos,
I survived, came out alive, but what a way to close the show.
We endeavor vigorously from dull dawn to dusk,
As we fly from bloom to sprout in quest of nectar,
Men stand to amass by swapping honey for bulk,
The hive will be mostly empty and left slightly ajar.
As per rhetoric, our stool can serve to treat cancer,
All ulcer forms respond finely to this therapy,
When ingested, it bears the body solid and denser,
Humans would not contrive osteoporosis misery.
We search the fertile soil at the crack of dawn,
As the visible sun's beams reveal raw floral life,
Fertilization is a side effect the same as a prawn,
The pollen grips our hairy legs, with no strife.
Men, however, are woeful with our free work,
But destroy our beehives to use honey and wax!
Our fiefs of bees are mostly massive and spark,
So we may glimpse the flowery grins and relax.
But people have utterly built microwave stations,
Working on the noble quest for sprouting nectar!
We drudge incredibly firm with little diversion,
And preserve our line going from our scepter.
Our hives are purely mangled by man, too,
And for syrup and paraffin wax, of course!
God who supplied bees in the grandest view,
Humans damage the ecology of the universe.
The clamoring bee has no time for sadness,
The mumble of bees is the garden voice,
Hear to bumblebees and follow their lead,
Some words are golden, and many are dread.
8th Place Contest winner
Written: May 25, 2022
Bee Creative Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
it is circulated deep into the soil
that you’ve wore the dress of paraffin
in the multidimensional wind of the winter
the cash-memo of the recently purchased
gold-bangles
would reside for some time more
then all the pregnant women
would assemble in the river-ghat
to meditate on the paddy-blossoms
all diamonds and clubs
would overcome their insomnia
through this arrangements
the crushing-news of fostering
flows
this dilution is well-known
the river-ripple of the air
after reading the sun
would keep some extension of dahlia
on its palms
in an unwritten evening
the demi-god-birth of the fire-flies
would break
their easy dead bodies
by the instigation of the surges
would ring … and ring… and ring
and spread cheerfulness
the elderly rain-tree comes to spray anti-biotic
on the spoilt top-branch of the young lad
covered with citronella
say
where should i keep all those foot-prints
having no lineage
from whose paraffin-in-the-palms
has taken birth
so much monsoon rain-falls
why the seagulls of this earth
have not learnt
in a better way
the meaning of open windows
wearing the same costume
they can fly only
from the north-east thames
to the non-aryan autumn
in the woods of yellow moon-light
the feathers fall down
from the body of the villagers
they levitate as letter
like the leaves of coconut
before the windows of a hospital
it may happens then
in the fire of the cigarette
in-between the fingers
there is no more in waiting
any absent-mindedness
rather
after composing their letters properly
the mermaids in the deep-fridge
are waiting for their next print
by putting the fire of the dry straws
in the air the indifferent neighbour
saves the intellect of the red-sandalwood
thus if it is possible to catch there
the betrothal
in the oily pollens of the spring
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
Her kitchen of boiling bacon,
and margarine - it was always steamy
and 'welcomingly' warm.
The bathroom, off the kitchen,
smelt of carbolic soap, and a layer
of talcum powder dusted the cupboards
a reminder of its liberal use.
The garden, with a greenhouse,
had a glorious array of pinks
and Sweet Williams - it was always summer:
no winters here, always sunny, as I recall.....
The old corrugated air-raid shelter,
above ground now, was a haven
for childhood, childish games.
It smelt of paraffin from the heater.
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
She would lick her hanky and
wipe my mouth if it was sticky
from the gingerbread she'd made.
My Grandma always looked the same,
never younger, never older:-
her memory etched in my cerebral
photo frame as I remember her ........
smelling of peppermints,
fingers deformed with crippling arthritis,
but smiling, wiping mouths, cooking,
or sitting in her little garden in a floral dress.....
She's been gone for thirty years now,
but still I see her there.
I see the tissue filled pockets in her
'pinny'and the pin-curls in her hair.
Yes, my Grandma smelt of peppermints.........