Long Plumed Poems
Long Plumed Poems. Below are the most popular long Plumed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plumed poems by poem length and keyword.
Dust
by Michael R. Burch
Flame within flame,
we burned and burned relentlessly
till there was nothing left to be consumed.
Only ash remained, the smoke plumed
like a spirit leaving its corpse, and we
were left with only a name
ever common between us.
We had thought to love "eternally, "
but the wick sputtered, the candle swooned,
the flame subsided, the smoke ballooned,
and our commonest thought was: flee, flee, flee
the choking dust.
Keywords/Tags: love, relationship, relationships, divorce, parting, separation, loneliness, alienation, grief, sorrow, lost love, loss, lost, dust, ash, ashes
Stretching out my crooked frame
I once again
see the odds are good enough
to join all those other nameless beings
who populate the internet
with ink and echoes.
In a dormant room
a laptop is singing quietly to itself.
Its calulating clock brain
ticking off moments
on its fingerless hands
waiting for the pitter patter
of my existential fingers to arrive.
A green plant (grown from seed)
is still sleeping.
I forgot what kind it is, it has no name
but against all odds
it flourishes in a dream-like way.
All night
posts from the innominate or,
the non-de-plumed
have been arriving from out of nowhere.
Against all odds, ink, and echoes
wait for me in a dreaming kind of way
for a reply, or at least an answer
to whatever, whom or why?
Under the bejeweled diadem of the sparkling sky
the vibrant celebration finds exuberance in the carnival,
morphing into a sea of color and music in the aura of night
where I float with the fancy procession in the spirit of joy.
The unleashed spectrum of confetti swirls in the festive air,
dancers in plumed apparels sway to the rhythm of samba.
The alluring aroma of street food drifts in the smoky air,
entices the ever-longing sense of delicious delight
The serene street reverberates with the tempo of trumpets
as the festooned floats glide through the hypnotized crowds.
Convention creates ingenuity in the exhilarating ambiance
with the mystique melodic motion in the festival of life.
Still, in my pajamas, cold, ‘tis Winter.
Purple and gray wool socks, and still, cold feet.
Yet i’d walk down into the oaks, with sun’s
light be soaked, at the Summer-plumed heartbeat.
Into the glowing moss and down the hill,
like my grand, who’d make glorious foothold
into the street. Still, alone, basking in
happiness, woolen feet waltzing, toes cold,
knuckles chapping, clapping of my steepled
fingers. dry and joyful lips, arising,
Dizzy, I'd survey the amphitheater -
steam of cold-heat, underfoot apprising.
O my soul, the crooning blue signature,
expansive, inexpensive, pensive sky.
Behold God’s goodness directed my way.
Though fibbing from inside, I do not lie.
The arms of my chair, still, caring, hold me
or i’d jetty into my imagination.
There the birds stir up woozy fairyland
with tea and serenity’s coronation.
2/10/2021
Contest: All Yours (Feb 10)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
{For 5x5x3 Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Miranda Hawley
Date submitted: 20/4/25}
ARTIST
They shone daring green avocado
in dark adverse period swearing
guilt ridden heart vanquished free
sacral scrubbed pink and ready
plumed serpent in magnificent bloom
with candles God watched supreme
from blue misty mountain clean
knowing Artist was not insane
two green irises unusually plain
pierced her luminous spine divine
naked Eve eyed painting quiet
easels of unfinished tired purple
massaged her throat coloured gurgle
rooms without curtains collapsing sad
Artist pierced Love bubble mad
A “mention” in the Master’s ante-room.
Another February had arrived,
with dirty snow and heavy, slate-grey skies.
(One couldn’t help observing, on the sly,
the Master’s knees were blanket-draped
beneath his desk.) No wigs or gowns on show.
A minor hearing in a puny case.
They call it “inter partes” when both sides
turn up. Some point-at-issue had loomed large,
and we were here to tussle over it.
This room, so Ruskinesque, with frescoes
high on every wall, so hard to heat,
was one great chilly barn. The speaker’s breath
plumed out before him. “And my learned friend … “
Our leader’s voice, so sensible in its drone,
so sweetly reasonable, continued on,
so redolent of wintry afternoons,
like hissing logs a-burning in the grate.
Those practised highs and lows, mellifluous,
his easy-listening tone, so bland, so blithe,
relying on the case of this-or-that,
distinguishing the precedent of such,
“I think it was Lord Blinkwell who opined …”
Two hundred years ago – a little less –
the young Charles Dickens wasted days in here
(the chances are, here in this very room,
observing dreary sleet run down the windows),
mired in this solemn nonsense. Might it be,
he swore an oath – if ever he escaped,
he’d never take life seriously again?
If so, this ponderous symphony in grey,
as glum as Shostokovich etched in stone,
has cranked out clowns. There may be more to come.
Let us ride
into a sunset's silhouette
to the far side of the land
which leads to an autumn lake
where white plumed swans pirouette
Lets hold hands in golden fields
Run through pleasant hay scent breeze
which blows gently,suddenly
brushing slightly across our cheeks
On a blanket we would lay
by the graceful willow tree
'Neath its boughs our dreams come true
Trapped emotions be set free
As the tangerine moonglow
casts the softness of its light
from the dusky blueblack sky
I walk to the hidden old chateau
with my alluring beau
He would seal my waiting lips
with the moistness of his kiss
I would let him brush my hair
with his fingers'tender care
And as I wrap within his arms
with still tears upon my face
He would harvest what he sowed
My pure heart in deep embrace
Your eagle-plumed lips breathe:
hold on to my angel-flying heart,
bite the unbroken
bone of my wing,
...and I succumb to your enticing heat,
O, to be free in your feverish flame ~
the humble fall of hope into
the sun-calmed kiss of your sea,
learning to move
and muse amidst the mystery
as I heed the slow sink
of mundane minutes
into splitting silence,
leaving no note of music,
as darkness dissolves
like the deepening daf
of an ancient ache ~
for whirling waves resemble
dervish devotees,
intoxicated by euphoric ecstasies…
But would you, the divinely placed
speaker of light and fate ~
still love my scarred swell
if, perhaps, you saw
the unavoidable ugliness
of unintentional uninterestedness ~
the failure to seek the sun that hides
when wakeful stars scintillate,
perhaps too reluctant to romanticize
anything that warms the sky
besides the saffron of golden dawn?
I am too tired to test the tides,
to see where they crash.
I am too torn to tease
and treat tribes
of tactful treachery with tolerance…
Take me as I am ~
I am the pursuer and the escaper,
the possessor and the possessed,
the wilderness and the peace,
the destruction and the dream,
constantly pushing and pulling,
learning to normalize
being the siren adrift
amidst aquatic angst ~
So wade with me, O oceanic nomad,
someday we will no longer be
just you and I,
but crooning currents
drawn only to the
magnetic magic of the mermaid moon;
we will rise as
Moirai mystics,
dancing with destiny,
engrossed in life’s pulsing peridots,
devouring Pele’s passion…
We were never meant
to conquer the chaos,
but to candidly claim the clemency
of rippling pearl blooms…
I am an island of love
that is yours truly ~
***Inspired by the artwork; The Sea Maiden, 1894
Herbert James Draper
A Blue Heron unleashes itself from a
surfing wind and flowing sky.
Wings spread it rides, almost hovering,
as it seeks a nestled place to land.
There, the long reeds
have been hollowed out by its mate,
but she has gone to fish,
gone elsewhere.
The bird lands,
for a moment its long legs are buoyed
by the merest whisp of gravity.
The heron settles, folding its wings
like a cloak around him,
now as the wind ruffles its feathers
he seems only a scrawny effigy,
of the bird in flight,
a plumed twig planted in the disturbed shallows.
The pond ripples with silver whispers,
small fish dart, their heads
arrowing deeper.
The Great Blue
strides slowly to the shoreline
becomes a living statue,
a patient presence
amid the rushing blow.
That is when I saw
how the world is stirred around
by a stillness,
how an unmoving center
can turn within a heron's eye.
Flaming out Full myself frog rode a glitzy snail to Frolic Town.
When he got there, he did a shimmy and danced all around.
Then he threw himself dramatically on the ground.
Flashing his feathered boa, making a really big sound.
He is so confident! The other frogs said to each other.
What kind of family did he have? Where is his father? His mother.
His parents are from outer space, they know no limits said his friend.
Which is why Flaming out Full Myself frog can be himself to the very end.
I wish I had a background like that, so many said at once and meant it.
He flung his pink and purple plumed hat around, and no relative had a fit.
He is truly magnificent! Frolic town residents agreed with each other.
Asking where is his father? He must have a saint for a mother.