Long Portend Poems
Long Portend Poems. Below are the most popular long Portend by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Portend poems by poem length and keyword.
Autumn's desires
Your amber-umber eyes, penetrate me
as saffron sun sets on faces, ashen
Your suspicious mind raves with jealousy
as pumpkin winds chill our summers passion
your love transitions to winter's fashion.
Fire and ice keep flowing through your bold veins
Wild imaginations portend cold rains.
I dream of your ruby-red crimson lips
my mind won't rest until you have returned
the touches from your ginger fingertips
we can rebuild the bridges that have burned,
then, we will laugh at all the lessons learned
I think of your flowing cinnamon hair
mem'ries of our home, and you being there.
John Derek Hamilton
September 16,2017
And so legend goes, of a daisy, not a rose
of a love to behold that quickly grew cold
Etched in regret, Daisy ponders in a fret
should he return, for him would she yearn
One eve a sweet miss was given her first kiss
her heart took to flight on that moonlit night
He lured her with smiles using wicked wiles
Promised to be true in words he misconstrue
In Spring's lush bowers he gave her flowers
She was crazy about the ones called 'daisy'
He gave her a bouquet each and every day
With loving care he twined them in her hair
Near Summer's end came signs of portend
Her lover disappeared, so then she feared
He played her false with each sensual waltz
they had ever shared, pretending he cared
Legend is hazy, but it's said that each daisy
turned a shade of blue, of the deepest hue
That Summer it snowed and her tears flowed
salty crystals froze because of love's throes
Rejection brought pangs so now there hangs
a canvas of art, painted by her broken heart
Blue daisies in a vase, hung above the fireplace
where fire never burned, once love was spurned
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
June 17th, 2017
Blue Daisy Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
By the raised light of Thor at rainbow’s end
on first calendar moons of Mars - a son
born of this Earth and Time, and I portend
a new renaissance age is now begun!
From first kicks in utero and gorged teat
till long foretokened days for all to see -
so begin uncertain and incomplete
the eternal bonds of futurity.
O babe in arms, beautiful child, my vow
is to mind and hold - to acquaintance seek,
to feel soft against mine your heart and brow
and kiss those sleepy lids and milky cheek.
So hearken when tiny almond eyes peep
papa’s birthday vows - vows I mean to keep.
Written: March 2001
The.isolated moon in far arc of her epogee,
As she searches Earth's surface in cold winter's hemisphere,
She bites her tongue of protest of what she will never be,
And throws sharp knives of jealousy into the atmosphere.
In the cold moon's distant musings, her echoes can't be heard,
And but for the crunch of snow, silence waits for morning sun.
A blizzard has filled a reservoir, and so needs prepared,
Yet moon added sparkly diamonds to selfish pleasure's run.
The winter moon shivers with knowledge that her days will end,
And a yellow moon will rise during six months of the year.
The anguished, tormented moon whose dark murmurs now portend,
She will vanquish the yellow moon, and once more reappear.
As on through timeless time …
In early life Time seems to pass
Near motionless while hearts beat fast
In search of people, places, things
That beckon all the joy they bring;
At least our thoughts convince as such
And let our dreams portend as much -
A wistful, waiting, watchful time;
In middle life Time speeds to fast
With things to do that will not last -
"Important things" that prod us on
With press of time, now here, now gone.
Since Time is neither friend nor foe
It passes by as on we go -
A hurried, harried, hustling time;
In later life Time slows its pace
Revealing a time-honored face
That sees days passing day-by-day,
A routine part of Life's great play;
But Time takes all within its stride
As we endure, as we abide -
A patient, passive, pensive time;
It's Time that fools us without shame -
It calls to us, it knows our name,
And spurs us on without regard
In timely press, now soft, now hard.
Time holds us in its timeless ways
And uses up our timebound days.
If we could look into the seeds of time,
and say which grain will grow and which will not,
we would arrange our affairs defiantly
in the face of current opposition.
If a thought should geminate and flourish
in the barren soil of the status quo,
it would likely be by sheer providence
that ideas would come to fruition.
Our dreams, our very imagination,
are what keep our momentum in this world.
Sans the prospect of incremental feats,
we would not strive to attain excellence.
If the portent of riches entices us,
would we forsake every value system
to attain the pinnacle of success?
No one could portend the foreordained path.
Nero the god! I had a dream.
There I was at the foot of Mount Olympus.
Mother was with me as usual.
As we reached a cross-roads, Agrippina said:
"Come Nero, here we turn left" But I said:
"No, mama, 'WE' do not. I'm gonna turn right!"
And that's what I did. She shouted after me:
"Become emperor, Nero, though you slay me".
The path led upwards toward the snowy heights,
past the lush vernal pastures of the lower slopes,
past vineyards and groves of olive trees,
through forests of oaks, birches,
willows, elms, yews and poplars and all holy trees,
past the crags where the chamois chewed stunted grass,
and the last brave wind-blasted pine
tossed and raged in defiance of the elements, I ascended,
till there was no other thing under heaven
but burning, blinding snow,
a conflagration no less fierce than that which now I see.
I looked down at the world of men,
and what should I see but -- ants!
The air was thin and pure - then the prize!
The summit appeared from behind a cloud-rift.
Treacherous thoughts welled up from within me:
"High climbers play with death –
death by freezing, death that lurks
in the shadow of a measureless abyss.
Was I not trespassing on holy ground? ‘
“Remember Icarus, remember Prometheus,"
sighed voices in the wind,
but then a louder voice from within me
bade me fear no counsel fit for the craven.
And so to the summit.
And what should I see when reached the Olympian heights,’
other than .....fierce Jupiter? Mighty Zeus?
I'll tell you what I saw!
There seated on an ivory throne, a frail old man,
whose long white beard fluttered in the wind.
His expression was more torpor than aught else.
That was it! He looked rather like...
some doddering old patriarch
that was Consul before Caesar's time.
As I approached, he tried to look grave and austere,
pathetically shaking his hoary senile head.
His trembling hand reached down –
I saw a quiver full of arrows
and a pile of thunderbolts at his side.’[
Now was my chance!
I seized him by the scruff of the neck,
and flung him down the mountain-side.
The last I saw of him was as he reeled
head over heels into a ravine.
Then I shouted in triumph to the four winds.
"THE OLD GOD IS DEAD.
Now I'm Top Dog. I got de thunderbolts".
Only a dream?
Perhaps. Dreams pass,
but not what they portend.
I Don't Want to Live This Life
(Change of pace equals review of book
long out of circulation,
but eyes experience immediate hook
so perhaps...take a look
and best locate a cozy nook).
Authored by Debbie
Spungen early 1980's,
yours truly doth recommend
perhaps Facebook
message I will send
whose person I would
be eager to befriend
cuz, title of poem by me,
and book written, sans arduous
motherhood to contend
by above (now octogenarian) gal,
a pitched battle blend
of brute confessional honesty,
and maternal love,
yet heaven forfend,
such sacrifice after gleaning
(of... course add in mix amidst end
of post World War II establishment,
viz hippie revolution number 9)
now only praise, aye absolutely commend
dubble "NOT FAKE" grueling
tale of emotional survival
during anti war
counter cultural trend
insert flaps did bend
immediate curiosity as
spurious hours to expend
choice of reading material,
thus found this bookworm
trying to comprehend
analogous taming wild animal
hence, engrossed many hours on end
today sunday February 17th, 2019
since birth Nancy Spungen the
firstborn and utter archfiend,
whose decade long trajectory,
yet to complete reading
harrowing story til the bloody end,
where near total
mortal kombat doth descend
how young mom stayed sane
one can only applaud and defend,
the monster birthed
from doting parents,
as both key figures
appeared to extend
more patience than Job,
mebbe wounds will never mend
unfortunate unbearable task
since day one did portend
a downward spiral, each day and night
for twenty orbits of Earth round sun
surviving family members
punishing trial may forever
garner kudos to legend
deary selflessness still
cost steep psychological stipend.
Little brother, you're new to trick or treat and Halloween.
Mom says I must introduce you, so I'll describe the scene.
It's a scary night, and little children often wind up dead.
The danger is so great, even the sun hides his fiery head,
but just before he disappears in lily-livered fright,
long shadows announce, "soon begins the long and gory night".
Like I told you, power saws turn trees into gnarled stumps.
Dark outlines turn hunchback dwarves into giants with big humps.
Silhouettes lengthen, and they hideously portend
the gruesome ways in which young lives prematurely end.
Why would our mother want to send us out on All Hallow's Eve?
She would like to get rid of us, I can only believe.
In a week or two, she will forget both of our names.
She'll sell our baseball cards, remove our pictures from their frames,
and take a holiday in the islands of Tahiti.
'Twas ironic how she said, "have a good time, sweetie".
Your only concern is to hang on dearly to your life,
and avoid vampires, zombies and Jack the Ripper's knife.
When the goblins discover that you are on the loose,
they'll surely try to catch you and hang you with a noose.
Big brother, if by chance, they kill you, not me, on this stroll,
do you mind if I eat your candy corn and tootsie roll?
Awaiting Autumn
By end of August, leaves curl on the trees
as hues of brown and yellow catch our eye.
While shades of green fade in degrees,
we know September's cooler days imply
it's time our Summer bids goodbye.
Though Summer warmth may overflow,
September will end slowly to portend
more brilliance added to the glow.
To richly paint the landscapes it will send
October in to stir the Autumn blend.
Cool crispness comes to fill the air,
makes us aware October will resume
progressing well with Autumn's flair.
Aromas from bonfires and orchards loom...
replacing fading scents of Summer's bloom.
September 8, 2018
Contest: Autumn
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
Form: Quintain