Long Perimeters Poems
Long Perimeters Poems. Below are the most popular long Perimeters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perimeters poems by poem length and keyword.
When the sky is a
sequestered sanctuary,
and the clouds croon
for sinking star-beams,
listen to the euphoric hymns of silence,
for seething storms throned
beneath rainbow castles
shall never obscure the
crystalline colors of compassion,
amidst thickened fangs
of dwelling darkness,
constantly trying to
seize peacock pigments
within violet-blue seas
of sequined sentiments…
O’ beloved white rose~
perfumed in vanilla love,
let not the wolf-spider gaze,
mirroring envy within black widow hearts,
confuse your diamond vision.
It’s just another day,
enveloped in a warm sakura sunrise,
there the gales of greed
looming in ghostly flecks,
question the redolence of rivulets
behind your veiled vigor.
There’s no reason to fear
when hope flows and drifts
like comets flying as fluttering butterflies
across the butterscotch horizon.
Remember, when the sage sun
seeps into foggy crevices,
and deserted dunes
speak in ashen accents,
their choice of words do not define
the rhythm of your seraphic symphony.
Your merlot wine spirit is
the whimsical wand turning unspoken
tales into wildflower wishes.
There’s no need for an alchemist
nor a sorcerer to concoct
spells that rearrange constellations,
as your voice swirls in magical mists.
You and I, are every last thing
we need to conquer the bewitching
perimeters we truly deserve.
Tonight, when my lids rest upon the
dreamscape of daffodils and dahlias,
I see that look in your eye.
I ponder, is it me that you long for?
Am I the unfading ink
within your saccharine sonnets?
I yearn to be the one you talk
about in sweet seclusion.
This trembling canvas longs
for no other skin to caress the acrylic
edges of my aching soul,
and I do not need
the wind and water
beneath whistling willows
to write my destiny
in green and gold.
We don’t need shades of shadows
following our intertwined silhouettes,
yet I let these metaphors
merge with the heat of
your passionate presence,
as you and I break through
the landscapes of grief
with mutual attraction
like the mulberry rays
between the moon and earth..
"The forest is a sanctuary where you can grow to be you," ... by the Poet.
The passing of a torch, when Spring was announced,
was noted in the melting quarter of winter memories, as a sun climbs in
its forgiving rays; hoping its extent will favor the many listless foliage
that shy away the hours and that will soon purify vividly.
A forest is a sanctuary of admirable heights,
indelible spreads in the reach of golden beams.
The nurturing glow is a blessed welcoming, as glimmerings of first light,
and in its duration;
at the lower regions,
are duly usual reliance on root's deep hold of the earth
will stabilize their stature.
The lesser herbage of lowly pinnacles beneath shades of tree boughs
whereby the sun's light skips and winks a trace of them, is nevertheless
enriched with nutrients that will foster its growth.
These passionate plantings in harsh spotty sites amid forested trees are all
functions of the grand scheme of nature at its finest. Two, of the three
sanctuaries, the Flora, is known as the greater of the living greeneries.
The Funga is the lesser of the verdancy of the woods' life.
Then there are the incidentals of nature, and their animated interactions known as the third sanctuary; the Fauna. They soar, stride, slide, and swim.
Most move free of incidents, and others, not quite so. It's the
beast of the jungle that rules. They set them, and when broken,
there will be consequences. It is the pattern set by nature for the cycle of life.
One life dies as a gift for another to live. These are the rigid realities of the
woodlands, though not limited here,
but relevant beyond this sanctuary's realm.
The entrance of Spring seasons well the vibrancy of greens evolving greener.
Anticipative varieties of colorful flowers can survive the thick overhangs
of a forest.
Fauna, or animal life forms, infest these regions generously.
Spring here in the forested jungles is no different from the expressed lands
beyond its perimeters.
The Wicket of Spring has opened its forest sanctuary.
A comment such as "He looked right through me" portrays a person who's not in a positive light relative to the veiwer. It's indicative of a reality that does not bode well for the person being observed because such a statement portrays a lack of respect. Every person needs to be respected, and eye contact is a great start toward achieving such an objective.
If tunnel vision is a lesser to be desired point of veiw, then certainly eagle vision is to be the most coveted of all, in as much as an eagle can spot a mouse two miles away. Why, if I had the eyes of an eagle, I would be able to see an ant from five stories high.*
Within certain perimeters, we have the ability both to see things we are not looking at and to target that which we desire. Sometimes it is difficult to see the trees because of the forest. However, if we really desire to see the tree, we must pause, slow down, or even stop for a close-up and targeted veiw of the tree.
It's been said that the devil is in the details, but remember also that the details might also reveal angels unawares or in disquise. So let's beware, bewise, and utilize both our tunnel and peripheral vision lest we deprive ourselves of something to be desired.
In our cyber spaced world of social media, we may have lots of 'likes' and 'followers', but do they have tunnel visions of you? Are they looking straight through you? Are they looking in your direction but does not really see you? Realistically, do they really have any idea of who you are? Anyway, I am all mused out in this dim-lighted tunnel which I must now exit and pause, because both my eyes and brain need a break.
04272018PS *Wikipedia
Two old men. That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away,
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoing former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscuous tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking bone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows, clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestial light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
TWO OLD GODS
Two old men.
That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away;
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoed former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscious tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking stone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestral light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
He moves quickly through the underbrush
I follow close behind, pushing
Briars cautiously with a hand prepared
To let go hastily and a throat
Holding onto a shudder in response
To the graze of the briar against
Soft, naked skin
He pulls bare branches back,
Threading his way through the pines,
Oaks, birch and different trees
Who sit waiting the first sunlight beam
Of a morning breaking through the night
Delighting in the flickers of life
Birds chirping, honeybees buzzing,
Deer and rabbit scurrying back toward
Their havens, dens awaiting
Leaves crunch softly beneath our feet
In the heart of the forest where
Silence is never as silent as it seems
He keeps moving and I keep following
Listening to the soft whisper
Of a mountain wood coming alive
I break free from his heavy step
Begin to follow the trail of a doe who must
Be going back to her fawn
And look closely for the signs of life
That cling to the dew covered vines and wild flowers
As they grace the edge of the woods
With lavender breath and a crimson caress
Creating beauty amid the jungle of emerald sighing
Softly, like a trace of joy embracing
The colorful nirvana of a realm that relieves
Hearts of their suffering and minds
Of their anxieties, creates a sphere of bliss
Where only God has the ability to grace its perimeters
With gentle hope that warms the heart
And soothes the spirit
He is with me, but up ahead of me
Where I have yet to see
And I hear it – the lifting of the gun
The cocking is quick and it remains to be seen
If it was my step or the raising of the barrel
That caused the stag to lunge forward
Free from the freezer
Free from death
Free for now
Hunting brings me the assurance
That there are still treasures untold
Within the heart of these mountain trails
Where God’s creatures remind us all
God blesses each one
With a purpose
A function
A aim
I shine my light upon the green earth
Reaching down from heaven’s domain
To show the world that their fantasies
Are the way that I illuminate the night
I touch the stars with my soft perimeters
Radiate love through clouds and storms
Mystify the writers and poets of nature
Send a shadow of insight across the seas
I melt with a heart of hope bound by faith
Sliding through the core of dancing spirits
Dwelling quietly along the mountain ridges
My destiny suspended within sweet dreams
I rest my graceful beauty against the eyes
Who take time to notice how I’ve survived
Decades of mystical wishes and embraces
From melancholy souls who treasure praises
I am the color of glittering stars that are afire
Imagining inspirations that color me with yearnings
For reaching across the sorrows and anxieties
With comforting joy and assured confidence
I accept the romantic affections that create peace
And welcome the dazzling enlightenment they bring
With their sense of promise and optimistic ways
Filling up the world with creative intimacy and wisdom
I give away the buoyant caress that others so crave
Risking everything to bring the dance of serenity
With echoes of sensitivity I sing a sweet song
Erasing all fear with my gentle and wise experience
I thrill the onlooker who hopes to find a cure for pain
Moving beyond their limited view toward potency
Feelings filled with brilliant reasons for knowing healing
That comes from perceiving the compassion I express
With me, the haunting moon, there is bold acceptance!
STRAND completely new (3) any theme any form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
June 30, 2020
The definition of self:
Is in the acknowledgement of self-wealth
Understanding the value of one's worth
Between the divinity of death and birth
Not as scrounging creatures in this dirty earth
But as lords, ladies; master; mistresses;
Kings; queens; gods and goddesses
Of a boundless and limitless universe
Putting an inverse to the suggested perimeters of one's mind
Having to mind the fickle fragile emotions that lag behind
Refine by "father time" under God's design
Where morals reside and combined
With breathing: the intake of what's good and exhaling the bad
It's so sad we aren't glad that we survived
Our hardest moments when our hearts get broken;
Lives are taken with tears soaked an'
We kill ourselves with our so called
"Distant, Destined Dreams and Schemes"
Which we want at that moment, which comes with
"Fame and Fortune Forgetting Fatigue and Fatality"
That's when the gravity of reality draws us back to sanity;
Constantly pulling us down when we want to succeed;
Giving us doubt when we want to achieve;
Losing our faith when we want to believe
That in life there are a lot of treasures to retrieve
That's why I'll believe this is a summary of the life we lead
And proceed to sow these evil seeds
In other people's gardens but when done to us we don't give pardons
And I have to end where I started that...
"The definition of self:
Is in the acknowledgement of self-wealth,
Understanding the value of one's worth
Between the divinity of death and birth
Not as scrounging creatures in this dirty earth"
As the young soldier returns home to family and friends,
From a war where he was needed, and he served honorably to protect and defend.
But the problem he now faces is embedded deep and it’s ripping at his soul,
As he meets family and friends he’s wishing he could just crawl back in his hole.
He had taken the life of a young boy that summer evening that was leading a goat,
He knew something was not right cause the young boy was wearing a heavy overcoat.
They had their perimeters set but the boy ignored the warning cries as he approached their site,
He pleaded with the boy to stop as he had him in his rifles sight.
He prayed to God and pulled the trigger and the boy exploded in the night,
And now he cannot close his eyes without reliving this horrible sight.
He had no choice had he not fired the boy could have killed his whole platoon,
What kind of people would sacrifice children, only lunatics and goons.
He wanted to tell his parents but the words just would not form,
As he hugged his mother and gently patted her arm.
And his dad looked at him and said son that’s a mighty heavy burden I see you’re a packing,
His dad could always read him like a book and knew his son had problems that needed tackling.
Dad placed his old arms around him and the young soldier sobbed with pent up grief,
He said son you’re going to be fine, just trust in God and let those tears bring you relief.
When you’re ready to tell the story you know I’ve always been your friend,
And I’ll always be there for you till the very end.
Form:
We all have a human responsibility and a duty to perform and execute.
I am convinced that our Maker has assigned to each of us a purpose.
The subject matter of purpose is very interesting with broad perimeters,
but it becomes more intriguing and far more challenging if one should
undertake the inviting task of revealing what lies within those boundaries.
Would it be fare to salty or fresh waters if I withheld the inhabitants of the
fish? The earth is beautiful all by itself, but far less without the presence of its mortals. The open sky would be a big blob of space were there no glaring
lights of the nights. It is the duty of Poets to define, describe, and display, not merely to report what they see.
The True Poet may or may not be a prophet, but for certain, a coward, a puppet, and reporter he is not. He sees the water, but also steam, ice, snow, and glaciers as large as states 'most stunning'. He sees the earth of breathtaking and awesome beauty, but he weeps over the decay of mortals. He sees vast skies of mostly blue and white clouds of calm.
He too has great respect for some dark clouds and flooding rains, but
his hope is solid and overshadowed by the security blanket of The Cross.
Perhaps he is a combination realist and optimist, but a pessimist he is not, and yes, he has fears and doubts like the rest of us, but you will never see or hear him shouting, "The sky is falling!"
100620PSCtest, A Poet's Duty, Beth Evans. 4P