Long Plunges Poems
Long Plunges Poems. Below are the most popular long Plunges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plunges poems by poem length and keyword.
River runs in the incised rocky terrain
Boat plunges in a propelling whirlpool
Gyrating agony of attrition perpetuates
Time to get winsome winds of solace
On the battered sail.
Winter mist wraps the wilted horizon
Shrouded sun deludes the dreaming dawn
Sanctum of stratified gloom freezes within
Time to paint the patina of joy
On the petals of hope.
Sky crumbles into the sands of time
Hued rapture of rainbow melts away
I sink in the sea of boundless bliss within
Enlightened I find the oneness illumined
Between Him and me.
April 25, 2020
For Brian Strand's Contest All Yours (Mar 12)
Earth life a hard school, we need to get through
It is a springboard for our soul’s ascent
Spoilt for choice, our heart’s dark desires pursue
Heeding not conscience, to grant love consent
Head-heart discord, plunges our soul in fear
We are lost in this world of illusion
Though wheel of time snatches all we hold dear
We accept not that we’re in delusion
Caged on earth by law of cause and effect
We are reborn here, again and again
God waits for us to cleanse our soul’s defect
Attained when all desires to rest are lain
Life after life, we choose pathways of strife
Cessation the practice, to be bliss rife
21-February-2021
A storm is brewing.
Heavy water laden clouds rise thickly,
the darkening sun plunges quickly
behind deep purple mountains,
hiding the gentle moonlight
that normally lights my erratic way.
I meander absentminded
around a maze of mountain paths,
suffering a terrible purgatory.
For the storm is raging outside and inside of me.
Outside electric serpents flash across the dark skies.
Inside is an aching heart of old desires.
No tears flow as I think of you.
Foul fog screens my feelings,
suffocates righteous repentance,
murders my murky sinful soul.
Deep inside me
emotions mingle, then surge,
and dissipate in thin air.
By midnight the summer storm
has already well and truly broken.
Ophidian lightning blaze in the dark skies,
Crashing thunder booms and echoes.
Rain falls in heavy drops.
I am well and truly soaked.
Water, the sign of redemption enslaves me,
but I am not baptized anew,
instead I wallow in self pity.
There is no hope for me,
or is there? Let the storm decide!
The Gaspe Peninsula dancing to music only she can hear,
She starts in the Appalachians of Northern Alabama;
Until she plunges into the sea at the end of the Gaspe,
The Mi'knaq Indians called it, the place where land ends.
She murmurs the music of the Scots and Irish settlers,
With fiddles and violins strumming and Gaelic lyrics;
On summer days, she is wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows,
That ripple in the fresh, sea breezes of the Saint Lawrence.
There are many wind turbine forests, a hundred miles high,
And the sound of the fiddles scream in her heart;
Along her shores she is rich wilderness, red cliffs, and forests,
And always the salt-tinged wind is caressing her soul.
Her peaks rise up to the azure blue sky in sweet solitude,
Birds swoop and glide her towering open rock forms;
And she hears accordian, gentle and soothing, weeping so softly,
And scattered are quaint villages and towns with bright roofs.
Many a shipwreck lay off her shores and the violin is sadness,
And the Blue Whales come surfacing and diving deeply;
Their blow-holes, blowing plumes thirty feet tall with a whoosh,
In the waters of the mighty Saint Lawrence that flows.
The fiddles are piercing and the piano cries as she nears her end,
Land plunges into the sea, and her journey has ended;
She is dancing to music only she can hear, of seascapes so beautiful,
Of boreal forests, pristine waters, wildlife, and high mountains.
_____________________________
October 5, 2015
Short Story/Music of the Gaspe
Copyright Protected, ID 15-714-669-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Gaining muscle
Restraining lies,
It was time for a new beginning.
And though it pierced unmercifully,
the dagger still won this round.
Fresh blood eliminates the guilt and the forgiveness plunges into the ground
an eery waltz is the only sound-
remembered from the memory,
where good met a horror story
and like a one hit wonder
forgotten.
Like the sound of your transparent voice,
the scold of surroundings
and the walls' whispers-
belting out the truth
But they don't matter anymore
The microphone shattered and your hearts beating 3 times as fast
you don't seem to remember-
A comatose dream-
inexplicable.
The regrets of the other half,
reversing into the cursed walls-
Are endless,
pointless.
Sympathy wasn't ever an option-
and with an easy way out-
Blame.
Guilt becomes all else
And while your hand points out,
three fingers point right back.
When all is gone,
It's done
The end of the storm has lightened
And now the sun lies-
high in the sky-
seeing all truth
but you still sit there, smiling-
forgetting,
one by one
they
fall,
drop
down the stairs,
no railing.
And trying to pick it all back up,
you kick my back.
Losing balance seeing those eyes for the finale
And I drop it all,
hit the ground
And it took that fall
To realize at all
That Ive given up
And there's more to come.
Now torn from out the home I’ve ever known,
Propelled by unseen winds to stray away,
The chilling rain that bathes my form is shown
By moonlight in this dance of swift decay.
I twist and turn as tender veins now tear,
Impelled by gales that push me to the dark;
My frantic tumble plunges down to bear
With sudden force against this rugged bark.
Yet, resting in this comforting domain,
I bow, amazed to know the sun will rise;
A deeper life shall bless the soil again,
Where quiet roots ignore the stormy skies.
Held fast within the forest’s cool embrace,
I fade into the shadows of this place.
A sliver of horizon, stiff in hand,
it bears no city, street, or promised land.
No inked direction on its back is set,
a silent promise, a forgotten threat.
It is a vessel built without a helm,
a ship adrift in a vast, indifferent realm.
Its message, trapped within the pulp and dye,
a whispered secret passing readers by.
It speaks of all the words we leave unsaid,
the phantom letters in the heart and head.
The “I forgive you” or “I love you too,"
they’d never find their proper avenue.
It is the bridge that ends before the shore,
the key that fits no lock upon the door.
It holds a sunset view, a painted sky,
intended for a specific, single eye.
Its life is one of stillness and of wait,
a transient object sealed by silent fate.
It knows the sender’s hand, the stamp’s brief kiss,
then plunges into the communication abyss.
It lies inside a drawer, or on a shelf,
a lonely testament unto itself.
A metaphor for chances cast away,
a sun-bleached memory of yesterday.
The postal system, in its structured might,
delivers day and navigates the night.
But this card breaks the code, the golden rule,
a rebel item, a stateless, wandering fool.
It mocks the logistics, the sorting machine’s whir,
a phantom address with no destination, sure.
It is the story told to no one’s ear,
a bell that rings where no one is near.
Perhaps its power is in the void it keeps,
the silent promise that within it sleeps.
For while addressed, its journey would be done,
beneath the gaze of a specific sun.
Unaddressed, it belongs to all of us,
this little card, this wordless, world-less fuss.
It carries every possible reply,
a universal, silent, hopeful sigh.
So let it rest, the unaddressed postcard,
a little piece of life we’ve held unbarred
from finality, from being truly sent.
A perfect moment, perfectly unspent.
It is the poem I write that you won’t read,
the planting of a universal seed,
awaiting recipient, could have been,
a memory in time that no one had seen.
It was the drifting time then
With its flow I could freely fly
Across the span of the azure sky
To distant lands beyond the horizon
Soar along with the floating flock
In the warm air of conviviality.
It was the drifting time then
When in the vibes of unfurled dawn
Tinged by the golden sunbeam
I could join the kith and kin
On the breeze-braced boughs
Croon together the spring song.
It was the drifting time then
When drenched in twilight gleam
I returned to the teeming nest
In the fond closeness of you all
Fold my wings in the embrace
Of unrestrained cordial intimacy.
It is the stalled time now
Shadow of invisible coronavirus
Creeps menacingly everywhere
Turning the nest into a cage
Confined morale plunges in lone abyss
Languishes in gripping isolation.
It is the stalled time now
Burden heavy on my collapsed wings
Songs have disappeared in dark night
But the rhythm of hope pulsates in heart
New pristine dawn will color the gloomy sky
Joy and freedom of the olden times will return.
It is the stalled time now
The altered scenario has transformed
Me and the way I look at my secluded future
Where the norms of intimacy will be redefined
As the recouped life isolated and changed
Adjusts to the ways reset to the new normal.
___________________
Written : June 23, 2021
Edited : December 30, 2021
Contest : Coronavirus (COVID-19)
Sponsor : Robert James Liguori
The steep waning of duskfall held by one
Cuddled by a wheeze , the dim air’s pale light,
Nestling upon boughs of memoirs undone
As scenes rise mildly with an ached delight.
Although fall plunges into my own depth,
Giving way to chills of winter ,prolonged
So must spring blossom with a fragrant breath
For roam I must through peaks of Augusts’ song.
And musings dip upon the faltering wings
A blazed remembrance of seasons’ refrains;
Snuffed by love’s risk, hardened from cold warning
Oh time withers, breaks ...still I call your name.
Hearts evade pleas, sweet moments gone astray
That now I rest on a crib of old stars
But such is life allowing what is the way;
To gather new treasures...near or afar.
Judy Konos' C'est La Vie
11/5/2014
A white flower with a long tail,
glides in the morning breeze;
Like an angel from the fairytales,
he eradicates venomous flies.
Black crown he dons, Angry face he has,
But his immaculate look enthralls ;
His feathers as light as hydrogen gas,
make him float in the sky.
He sings, plunges into the air,
performs mimicry and gymanstics,
in search of his perfect pair,
who has a very short tail.
Dark brown and delicate white
are the colors they boast;
Though the male alone has a long tail,
both are indeed the bird lover's delight
Indian paradise flycatcher is the new name;
Previously called Asian paradise flycatcher,
As Shakespeare said, what's in a name?
They already achieved fame
08-Oct-2019