Long Pencilled Poems
Long Pencilled Poems. Below are the most popular long Pencilled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pencilled poems by poem length and keyword.
All words and wonder, wobbling copper green
Foam and guano floating
In the sea cave’s lee
A flock of gannets raucous on a rocky pile
And the ever-growing echo as the men came by
Climbed from the boat
And dragged it from the water
Bare feet on painful pebbles relieved by sand
And, at the back of the cave, they dug on their knees
Scooping with their hands
A tiny purple phial was found, ancient and Phoenician
The granite stopper plucked
And, instead of a salty seaweed smell,
An oozing, resinous scent
From the darkness of consciousness
A rose and orange essence
Though not exactly a smell
Rather a panorama of far-off painted and planted secret messages
Kiss-kept by a woman
The tinkle of her bangles upon her wrists and ankles still
Echoed in the cave as if the lady was there
Her glancing eye gripped one cold
The press of her heel as she posed before dance
The burst of laughter with friends
Admiring her pencilled eyebrows and plum-blushed lips
Hips and elbows endearingly tipped
She leant forward and whispered into the traveller’s ear,
All words and wonder:
“Find me some ambergris and bring it to Arabia
Find me some ambergris to perfume my breasts
Find me some ambergris and bring it to my tent.”
They were in her mind,
She pencilled them in her heart,
They came forth from her,
Asimov’s children,
She bore them,
One after other came forth,
Generation after generation,
They were transformed,
There was a transition,
Artificial intelligence hit the
the crescendo of the technology world,
It has held bound in the corners of the world,
It infiltrated the realms of space,
Agile robots and androids
interface with humans,
Humans are overly
dependent on them,
The laws of robotics
have their shortcomings,
So also robots are flawed beings.
They are no match for humans,
Despite their pitfalls and stumblings.
March 29, 2022.
speak not to me
in artificial alphabets ~
acrobatically alliterated adjectives
to please these moonrise eyes,
I understand the need
for words
when the weight of woes
weighs heavier,
I crave not superficial synonyms
amidst your artless soul,
reaching, seeking,
a sanctuary within my poetic heart ~
O delightful deceiver,
unintentionally inking
intriguing illustrations,
I feel you today,
a little more than yesterday,
the suppressed insecurities
disguised as indifference ~
ask not for forgiveness;
keep adorning the skies
to stitch sinless sonnets
and design them with digital sparks.
I will pretend to be blind,
trust my silence:
I read between bedazzled,
brokenness of blue-deep ballads.
Truth no longer
a talentless tongue-twister,
but a tercet, fine-tuned
to the ears that heed
only the robotic rhythm.
I pity the pulse that has no passion ~
what is a ripple without its rhythm
a shore without a heartbeat
a pen without its pigment
a life too afraid to ache
a runner without a reason...
listen, O muse-less muteness,
to the language of bards
and blackbirds crooning,
you are the sand that deserts
the hourglass, terrified of time...
I am one amongst the bleeding quills,
burning to be anything
but a breathing fool,
unaware of the pencilled possession
of prose and peridots ….
" Tortured metaphors
spilling from tequila lips,
t i p t o e on my pulse ~
breaking in an arced smile
of the featherless eclipse,
where I waltz as a secluded steel-shine,
sobered s o f t l y
by the taste of satanic stars..."
I'm the loss of a leaf
from gold-dew aspens,
rippling upon
turquoise typewriters,
where drunk fingertips dance.
Turning to ashes,
my heart m e l t s
as a metallic grenade,
and no philosopher's stone
ever reverberating
in its silver-winged silence.
Seeking shelter from smoldering seas,
I curl up in the womb of a guardian willow ~
she's a weeping angel of n e v e r l a n d,
with an ornamented garland
of guns and roses,
enveloping me in the corpse of sunset.
Plunging from diamond cobwebs
into isles of champagne,
like a dynamite dove bloodthirsty for sun,
I l u r k along reefs
studded with rhinestones, unfurling –
lotus manuscripts
as poetic pearls s l i p and t w i r l,
snorkeling in an obsidian oasis.
I miss being
a purple-whisper prophecy,
threaded in fractured letters,
for now, my ink b l e e d s
in the marrow of moon,
where an alchemy is lost and found...
In the chronicles of carnelian clemency
and supernova sorcery,
I've seen arctic assonances
hibernating
in the throats of those,
holding lethal jewels
as a nightingale's neon noose.
So, if my soul is an opal widow
of your thistle-light affection,
a verse romanticised
will be my crystal coffin,
and in the caricatures
of kohl and karma,
our silent soliloquy
shall delicately be shifted.
Surfing in the splitting s i n s
of a salty saviour,
this whiskey damsel
shall evermore remain
a scentless phrase,
scrapped by pencilled brush-strokes,
i n v i s i b l e
in our paper-cut destiny...
Standing up the easel and putting on a scrap piece of paper,
the person with grey eyes and olive skin blinked
aimlessly at the new found lay out of the untouched page.
A smile was not apparent on the cracked lips of the mouth.
Above, the stars did their thing and twinkled.
A single petal of blossom floated into disappearance
amongst the nightfalls navies.
The hand pencilled a staggering drunken man,
covered head to toe in an alcoholic quiver; he was
slowly killing his own liver.
Then the hand smudged a river under a delightful starry sky;
the man in the picture too bewildered in mind to feel
the piercing coldness from the rivers wind.
The drawing a work of amateur art that nobody had not yet seen.
Tan leather boots with fancy stitching
Butterscotch vest with pencilled fringe
Polished black Stetson size eight and three quarters
Faded denim shirt with copper snaps
Silver oversized belt buckle that shouts rodeo
Deep gravelly voice with cigar precision
A pronounced limp unnoticed for years
Shoulder soreness no longer felt
Calloused hands scruffy with purpose
Symmetrical Unadorned hatband
Chiseled well mapped chin
Blue eyes faded by hundreds of suns
Hawkish nose with brownish patch
Saturday night cowboys stare in awe
Trying so hard to look the part
He wears with ease, unaware
He is being studied, real cowboy
Doing his own stuff, no agenda
Unconsciously perfect
In his maleness