Long Pliant Poems
Long Pliant Poems. Below are the most popular long Pliant by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pliant poems by poem length and keyword.
feathered …
moony beams daub your lips -
the irregularities
shaping little cornflower thorns
but oh, how supple the
pliant press of those luscious fruits
(savored like honey) …
I touch them delicately with the
back of my finger
then move lower to your
daintily-dimpled chin, and down …
I follow the blue beams
with my fingertips
dancing across your surfaces as
little bumps form and
your flesh jumps here-and-there
telling me I’ve found the
sweetest spots,
though I’m winding my way to
an even dearer dermis
and warmer intent …
what is the enchantment of
these moments -
this magic of moonlight that
makes me want you so?
there is a mad mystery to why such
time stops and waits for us,
and were it not for
the responsibilities of morning,
we would hold this moment forever -
painted in dreamy shafts of blue
trading touches like truths
swimming the rill of each other’s soul
and haunting a wonder-world -
whimsical, immortal
and ours …
alone.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden
Indigenous woman—rarely accompanied by their
white sisters—or their men enter
through the side door
of St. Peter’s Church.
Here they are boxed in cool stucco,
and stained-glass. A flock of Mexican
Madonna’s shift today to encompass
their fairer sister:
Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo.
Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es
el fruto de tu vientre:,Jesús.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is
the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros,
pecadores, ahora y en la hora ...
drones on—and on—and on
within the heavenly heights of gilded frescos—bleeding—
rainbows prism the room in false light, kaleidoscoping upon
the walls—murals of brocade, gold-threaded catch random rays.
Woman anchor the pews with their desires—
Pliant and pleading these mothers beseech Mary to intercede:
for first class citizenship (inside and outside the Church)
for work, for health, for a better life for their children.
Voices of the lamb bleating; dinner for the wolves, they pray.
SHORT SHRIFT-little or no attention or consideration
My sonnet has the temper of a screaming child
because I'll not allow it to run free and wild
Mired on a pad, it damns me. "I want to fly free!"
"You're not ready," I whisper. "Put your trust in me."
It cried, trying to hold on to its pregnant dreams
blaming me for aborting expressive rhyme schemes
"Ask your muse to find more decorous selections."
On her advice, I began to make corrections.
I purged all the rhetoric and made a new start
resulting in the birth of a sonnet with heart
I danced for freedom I'd granted to my verses
No longer do I hear the yowling of curses
I will continue to write with a pliant quill
and an open mind with the ink I choose to spill
eventide drizzles
rhythm of colors
dancing as dainty ballerina
with twilight tinsels
transient
of ripped rainbow rinds
captured at golden fringe
of cloud clumps
coalesced
as heavenly hues
descend at crescendo
of cosmic ballet
at ebony edge
of onyx night
squashed sordid sky
enwrapped embellished
by the last sunset tinge
waits in somber seclusion
for rain-rinsed pliant petals
to unfurl unsung
aurora of afflatus
to embroider ecstasy
on halcyon horizon
with lattice of luminance
splendorous
juvenile smile
sparkling sapphire
of innate innocence
configures purity
integral
cascades as crystalline stream
in verdant valley
finite
of fleeting youth
for a yearning while
with ageless naïve aura
inundating self-effacingly
pristine plateau of
unsullied face
immaculate
flash-flooded with fantasy
consumed being
at the edge of time
waits unsure
at doorstep of destiny
wipes dense obscurity dust
salvages fossilized smile
of petrified portrait
on crumpled canvas
of buoyant senile life
sanguine
suddenly from somewhere, a street urchin
an untamed bird of the wider sky
dropped down into the circus tent.
before him unfurled, scenes eerie, awesome!
soaring lions and tigers, gibbering baboons,
caravans of camels, animal tamers and acrobats,
artists balancing on poles,
swinging from bars to trapeziums,
pliant girls with plastic limbs and pouting breasts,
walking on tightropes.
a strange world with beasts and men!
his face painted white.
in motley dress, he was arrayed,
and a tall tapering cap placed
on his forcibly tonsured head.
he hardly knew what it all meant.
he heard the bells ringing
and it was time for the show.
he was told; he would henceforth be a clown
and should make people laugh.
* * * *
a thousand sunsets passed him by.
he forgot the familiar alleys of the streets.
lost sight of the endless pathways of the sky.
lost in a world,
so populous- so empty.
he buried him, in the hidden caverns of himself,
nursing a hundred bruises
inflicted by Time’s sharp razors.
a stranger to himself.
at times, tears long held back,
would trickle down, moistening his pillow
as he lay listening to the inner ravings of his heart.
often, he was reminded-
‘you should make others laugh’
he did make people laugh
while a fountain of tears still lay frozen,
in the slivers of his broken heart.
Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.
Did you think my friendship fickle,
thus deserving of the sickle
did you think that it would wither up and die?
Did you think my friendship faded
thus transforming true to jaded
did you think you could revive if you try?
Did you think my friendship lacking,
thus you sent me swiftly packing
did you think that you should stop and ask me why?
Did you think my friendship ended
thus presumed it can't be mended
did you think that you could leave without goodbye?
Well, my dear, let me assure you
That as friend, this girl is true blue
did you think I'd let you simply walk away?
Quiet wrong is your surmising,
and I find it quite surprising
that you'd think this friendship's was not here to stay
So, now listen, friend, just listen
Let these word's of friendship glisten
as on through these lines of poetry you play
I'll be here though sometimes silent
With a heart that's supple, pliant
Write the words, and don't be doubtful, dear, I pray!
Eileen Manassian
As I sit once more in this chair,
trying to fit word to page in some nice way,
inspiration seems, this evening, rare;
my muse is distracted, keeping melancholy at bay.
I long for a soft, pliant embrace,
shared by a maiden draped in silken thread;
moonlight brightening her already radiant face,
and her enchanting smile, at what could lie ahead.
Her shining hair pours down her back,
like the rain in which we stand;
the right way she seems to lack,
as she looks to me for a guiding hand.
These hands glide down, around her waist,
and slowly we begin to dance.
Underneath the stars, our own new path is traced,
as we float along, in our lover's trance.
The feel of her, so near and so warm,
I cling to, like a drowner's lifeline;
her every sigh, her very form,
beyond my imaginings of the divine.
To go on like this, held enchanted
in her eyes, serenity's sweet founts,
I feel would be my heaven granted;
my trials, her affection surmounts.
The haze shimmers, the dream recedes,
leaving me dazed, shaken in its wake;
as ever and always, my heart bleeds,
craving an end to its boundless, yearning ache.
In a weightless state of tranquility,
paraphrasing relentless thoughts of motion
in my head into words, which 'til now
have laid dormant in unsung verse, waiting
for you to shine brightly upon them.
Freshly painted impressions mark
the beginning of halcyon days, where gulls
hover just above waves that barely
kiss the shoreline, burying tiny toes
beneath the coolness of wet beached sand.
To what shall we compare thee or can
your effulgent beauty be measured
by metered stanzas of verse taking form
on rice paper and egg shells so that the yolk
slips out draining lucent into the earth's core.
Your wisdom surveys the high seas,
coursing through cavernous veins that harbor
quietly in safety channels, as zephyrs
challenge moist underbrush among youthful
lips, blowing innocent kisses in playful semblance.
Oscines sway in sync beneath heaven's domain,
bathing in rays of sweet luminosity,
as sun-drenched fossils rise, reborn,
reclaiming their gaiety to shine unobstructed,
teething along crevasses of incandescence.
Embrace these Sun days, reflecting
on fireside chats and old storybooks,
reciting euphonious tales that burn mellow,
rising to greet the eyes of omnipotence
with chants of celestial song and dance.
And to this place we call rapture,
let wings of sober doctrine reveal
where grace resides within Sol's castle,
waiting for the children to come forth
with clasped hands in joyful unison.
Such days will greet warmth openly,
without hesitation, so the orbiting
star becomes ever more pliant,
allowing whatever name you choose
to objectify it, to stand always...
Bright, within itself.
My Garden
The dirt calls to me.
The seeds are waiting.
I need to pray before I begin.
Nothing will grow right,
unless I do this.
I feel the sun warm on my face.
The earth is pliant to my touch.
My gloves are removed.
I want to be closer to Him.
I am on my knees now,
most of this day and the next.
I don't mind,
I feel it is the right place,
to ask for a blessing.
One that would feed us,
and keep us,
for all the cold winter,
and into the new spring.
For now, I count the pieces
in my hand.
Each a sign of hope,
and a vivid, tangible representation
of a future worth living for.
Thank you, Father,
for my garden,
and for the rest you give me,
for my soul.