Long Petrichor Poems
Long Petrichor Poems. Below are the most popular long Petrichor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Petrichor poems by poem length and keyword.
Billowing nimbus writhe in charcoal sky,
zephyr winds whisk waves over briny seas.
I watch, observing clouds hastening by
on showery Summer days such as these,
as crystal raindrops soak my thin chemise.
I seek shelter 'neath a swaying date palm,
my wet hair; cobras, dancing in the breeze.
Then the rain abated; the sea grew calm,
sweet petrichor rising, its scent a soothing balm.
SUMMER RAIN STORM(2) Spencerian Stanza Poetry Contest
Sponsored By Dale Gregory Cozart
n/a in contest judged 7/9/18
Submitted to poem na'd in a July contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a broken wings
ABABBCBCC checked with rhymezone and how many syllables
6/15/18
A Part of the Past Frozen in Time
You can
drive your whole life
not look upon the face
of harbingers in spring wet earth
Remembering the ephemeral warm
Mediterranean summers
clean petrichor fresh rain
bucolic life
setting
Yielding
a nostalgic
propinquity city's
efflorescence dress brick buildings
The epiphany of an old church as
it sings the echoes of erstwhile
Redolent warm feeling
Victorian
versed homes
Yester
years fine brushstrokes
Trees towering on the
outskirts of the demesne beauty
Unique, intertwined dalliance with the
farmed and the wild a wonderful
serendipity find
quiet hunger
of life
Copyright © Eve Roper 3/31/2016
“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” ~ Unseeking Seeker
The sun
w a n e s into the saline swell,
and the ether
undresses corseted ruminations,
while heart follows formless flames
illuminated with flares of
frankincense forgiveness
as mind replays recurring regrets
like vinyls~
spinning forlorn runes
laced with fallacious fragments,
clouding the intricate cycle of lunar~
intuitions with illusive riddles,
drifting into the eventide of agony…
So I drink and I dine
from the hyacinth hands of
the golden chalices
brimming with turmeric tranquility,
listening ~ in sync ~
with the soul of sanguine stillness
ricocheting with rustling repose,
erasing cracked crevices
heavy with ache
from soft smears of monarch-bliss strokes,
spilling picturesque pigments of peace
from Mona Lisa musings
to veil visions of vanity,
to mask mirrors of melancholy,
to soften scarlet streaks of sorrow…
Tonight I close the portals
of perplexed perceptions,
unlocking the crown chakra
like forgotten forests
glowing with faith and fireflies,
allowing stars to glaze
my inner psyche
with dusts of glistening gratitude,
fine-tuning the symphony of Kundalini
to musical mists of mindfulness,
cloaked in
crystalline clovers of clarity~
like an awakened fairy
flipping leaves of lotus love,
pausing the pulse of pain
beneath an empyrean embellished
with spiritual elixirs,
detached from darkness,
clinging neither to
the seraphic scriptures
nor the egoistic galaxies,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
of material mantras.
As enlightened ink r e m a i n s
reliving ~ sewn into the
seams of sacredness
like endless rivers rippling with
opalescent quiescence…
O divine almighty,
I vow to sow herbs of harmony,
engrossed in the timeless phase
of rose-wine twilight~
untangling twisted tulips
intertwined with
weathered willows.
As I seek nothing but lucid light,
soaked in petrichor musings,
resting in zealous zenith,
for I am a rhymeless disciple
accepting the reality
that kissed the silk of silhouette
amidst rain and warmth~
the celestial peaks of change.
I taste flavors of kismet,
swallowing spices of lament,
comfortably composed
in the mystical essence
of soundless rhythm…
If to l o v e you
must I find
cosmic keys
let wisteria words
unlock the
ethereal gates~
to dream within
the celestial warmth
of your
amorous arms
to taste phrases
fragranced with
crystal amber
lunar drops …
and to breathe
p e a c e
must I swallow
petrichor memories
resting on
poisoned petals
as this love is
a murky mirage
of white
oleander wishes
and I forever dwell
in the aftermath of
what once was written
as
t i m e l e s s romance …
but can the
distance between
twinkling topaz stars
trace the
magnetic map
to your hibiscus heart
where sky spills
no blemished rhymes
and the wind
sings not of scars?
perhaps the moon
and
astral flares
shall sync
with
peridot waves~
to serenade serenity
resting amidst
pensive silence. ..
(Dedicated to one of my childhood friends)
You were one of those charming lilies
that bloomed, so fresh, in my springtime pond;
when my homesick wings of longings flutter and soar,
and my mind alights
on the periphery of the playparks of the past,
I reminisce all the little fun we had
along with our other friends -
as we strolled through the narrow trails
in the verdant flowery meadow
that sprawled near our school
during the tender years of our lives.
The giggles and the laughter
the chuckles and the chatter -
those shrieks and the squeals
that baffled even the needles of time
to forget their own pace
and hop and waltz along with us.
Then roads diverged, new air we breathed
as we took new paths to pursue our purposes in life.
Years later, you arrived once very near my place
yet we could not connect and get ourselves to meet.
That day when we talked on the phone
and I heard your voice after a very long time,
my mind leapt for joy and soaked for some time
in a summer drizzle of rainbow memories -
of those I had long forgotten
as you reminded them to me in our chat -
they linger on like pleasant petrichor.
Later, I tried to recollect and sing our childhood songs
rhyming it perfect with the
unrhyming clamor of our choruses.
When commitments in work and family responsibilities
seem to have rusted the gate to my nostalgic dam -
your call was the key to open it - and when creaking opened
wistful emotions gushed forth
to form an ocean of yearnings
to be a child once more.
You revived the puddles of my mind with paper boats
that carry leaves, stems, and flowers of fond memories.
I felt like a gleeful kite in the vast blue,
fleeing for a moment from the humdrum day.
You will forever be the same charming lily
adorning my little lake of most treasured blossoms.
My bestie, my soul-sis.
Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” ...
Leonardo Da Vinci
What if there was no poetry in this world?
Unpoetic world with no more poetry
No more perfumes to permeate flowerbeds.
No more glossy beads of petrichor cloying.
A blindfolded moon in veil hunts for solace
moving a canvas of craters, in clouds motionless.
Voice of unspoken words wilting away,
locked in deep thickets, an infinitesimal space
clog a lump in throat of breathless syllables.
reckless tender feelings transmute and displace.
No urge to transcend, No boundless and free...
An unpoetic world with no more poetry.
A lovesick heart no longer rambles
Only blaring sound in bleary eyes,
as known faces devour unknown shorelines.
No more open waters , no more endless seas
No misty mountains, No opaque night walls
Only sunsets fade into shattered dreams.
Butterflies swarm around in colorblind paths,
in search of red and green, they find no more.
No more rhythm ,
No more rhyme,
Only pattern of time ticks in twenty four
The Useless Joy of Poetry,
With us, she is no more.
Dated 24 th January 2019
"The Scent of Eden"
Up the road I walked
as if in some golden hazy dream
and along the road an honour guard
to the left of me, of red-ripe apple trees
I walked bare feet
into that lush abundance
of waving dark forest green
the scent of mystery, fresh petrichor
wet leaves underneath my soul
moistly called me in, to believe
some kind of beckoning
to unprocessed novel new beginnings
I plucked the largest I could find, as always
stretching too far above me
then, in my hands
I raised it to my rosy lips
before I took it fully in, my over-soul
breathed its knowledge o’er me like a twin
wisdom, its gilded giddy perfume
the scent of Eden,
sings
Candide Diderot. ‘25
The smoldering sun shines incessantly
Until the earth’s humidity hastens
The forming of cinereal clouds calmly covers
The spacious skies above and suddenly
Gentle rain soft but steady
Begins to fall, splattering and wetting the soil.
The pitter-patter pronounces a petrifying tune
Upon the roofs, amorous rondel tunes.
Oh, how I love the fresh feeling of the rain.
I feel like singing in the heavenly showers
I get dishevelled and drenched.
Yet I will sing a symphony of love,
For I am happy even more.
Love is in the air.
Thank God, no lightning spoils the sky.
Yet it rains even more.
The grass is even greener now.
It sparkles with dewy drops,
And sheds its pleasant petrichor,
A harmonious and happy fragrance
In our vast verdurous vale.
Meantime my Mary joined us in the melee`,
We dance a Dougie under the deluge,
Until tired we went in for a warm shower…….
Placed 2nd
Once upon a budding arcadian green
a last veil winter hoar melts on the bud -
Romney low country lambs fattened to wean
chew in flocks upon the ruminant cud.
In the tea trees to the whistling song thrush
I alone hear that first September dawn,
and outside beyond ryegrass, fern and rush
glisten woolly coats of sheep early shorn.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
In stone moss stream, wild aromatic grass,
the sleeping flower does the sun invite
but an ancient blood moon shall come to pass
on the shadows of day and dark of night.
Soon the muster will shatter a false peace
in cornucopia of herd and bloom -
nigh the yard gates will fill with milky fleece
and only finest wool spin on the loom.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
Smell the petrichor and jade scented hedge,
the lambs, the honeybees in pollen’s net -
that botany of sights and sounds and fledge
of young and new moonrise to moonset.
The morepork on night hunt moonlit prowl
casts its eye and spreads its speckled wing -
and in the mists see swamphens and waterfowl
rise again the prismatic dawn of spring.
Written: August 1989
I was born into the weeping skies of July in this part of the world
where the monsoon speaks in a language only the soul understands.
Rain, like liquid glass,
trickles down the banyan and banana leaves,
the air hums with the rhythm of life reborn,
and as a lullaby induces me to sleep.
The sowing takes place in paddy fields
where the showers provide them nourishment.
The month is for raindrops, longing, and renewal.
It carries the scent of earth awakening—
petrichor rising, an invisible hymn
that turns every street into a memory.
The thunder roars in its bold voice
while lightning sketches fleeting maps in the clouds.
History walks here too,
in the folds of the humid evenings,
where poets once sat with damp paper and wandering thoughts,
letting the rains wash away all but the essential truths.
I wonder if they felt what I feel—
a smallness, and yet,
a sense of being part of something vast and endless.
Rabindranath Tagore, the Nobel Laurette, a proud Bengali like me
inked innumerable verses and songs immersed in emotions and romance
of the rainy season.
There is joy in July,
the kind that blooms in puddles
and dances in barefoot steps—
a carefree spirit that the rains bring,
drenching you not in water,
but in stories.
Yet shadows linger,
in the quiet that follows the downpour.
The streets flood, and dreams stagnate.
The skies brood, heavy with secrets.
But even in this, there is beauty—
a promise that storms pass,
that clear skies are born from the chaos.
This is the month of resilience,
when life bends but does not break.
A time for prayers carried by the rain,
for whispered hopes left floating in the swollen Hooghly.
It is a song sung in minor chords,
melancholy, but deeply, deeply alive.
I carry July in my heart—
a woman of its storms and softness.
Its spirit breathes in me:
the courage to love the rain,
the patience to wait for the rainbow,
and the faith that every deluge ends
with the world washed clean.