Long Portico Poems
Long Portico Poems. Below are the most popular long Portico by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Portico poems by poem length and keyword.
In the resplendent dawn of one seraphic spring
I saw a delicately weaved bird’s nest nestled
on the baroque bough of the magnolia tree
that was in full bloom in the backyard lawn.
Since then I saw every morning a cheery Robin
fly low in zest through the crispy fragrant air
with the wings spread to span the cerulean sky,
and descend to its nest as my songbird.
The bird of bright daylight flew with sunburst zest,
kept the secrets of avian delight in scarlet breast.
When thrushes were silent it sang to the first sunray,
the winds carried away the lyric of the dawn.
Little Robin swung on tree boughs in the surge of squall,
fluttered with rhythmic melody when rainbow appeared.
I heard the bird perched high outside my window
sing for me the sunrise song of the new day.
The charming bird dancing on the bowed branches
gave me enchanting company in the lonesome hours,
singing delightful songs that sailed in the gloomy air,
suffused my time with the ether of sensuous joy.
As I enjoyed the friendly closeness of the chirping robin
my pet cat sat by my side at the edge of the portico.
Perhaps with a built-up feeling of envy she watched me
engrossed with the little bird, unmindful of her presence.
One sunny morning I placed some corn on the porch,
found the bird fly in, hopped around to eat the grains.
My cat appeared from nowhere, pounced like lightning,
caught the robin in her sharp claws and ran away.
Sitting now by the window I miss my robin on the tree,
but in my ear still resonates the twitter of the bruised bird.
A scarlet-throated hummingbird, betrayed,
commences the annual rite of packing his nest,
in response to whimsical winds' pirouette
and the capricious moods of weather's ballet.
Distant friends once conspired in sunbeam pursuits,
beak-dipping in nectar teased from blossoms' allure,
whispers of the breeze tutoring flight's debut.
Without forewarning, save the whispers of history,
the wind turned, concealing its chilly shoulder,
snow's fragrance on its breath, contradicting denials.
Taking only essentials, nestled close to his breast,
an eccentric twig, a wisp of newborn down for nostalgia,
the unborn blueprints of a portico, a dream deferred.
Perched on a bare branch at dawn, the crimson aviator bids adieu,
soaring on a desolate breath, burden lightened,
leaving his heart with the capricious whimsy of sylphs.
Monkeys in Moon
Just a few lucky monkeys could be at moon
And to be one among them was your boon;
It’s real, they said, humans may come soon,
And to pluck fruit before them, be a goon.
The minion’s whisper of secret polemic numbed
My senses! I woke up looking sanity thumbed
A future for reposing ambition in me; it drummed
My sleep away; away gone life, to hell succumbed.
One morning, from my tall portico hung my fife;
People stopped to talk of bygone tales of strife,
And the town stifled my bio and it became rife,
With legends, myths and filth; they felled my life.
And then I found monkeys in life, real monkeys,
Monkeys with more and more polemics, like junkies.
And then truth dawned; hadn’t I reared monkeys
In my heart for riches I wouldn’t be with monkeys.
Invited into Her circle
of five points,one for each
of the qualities She crystallizes,
truth as fire, earth as nourishment,
body in water, lights in air, and ether as love,
in Her center a sacred thought having origin in primal purpose,
we embraced as immortals do,
mouth to ear and song to song,
mind to memory and wish to wisdom,
connecting with the ease of melody on morning's hope,
frollicing within the gamble of a galaxy grown mad from curiosity,
the path of the Prime Mover performs a pounce along our venerable vertebrae,
She widens a door which illuminates a portico,columns white marble and red veins,
tempered flames in low tremble make vigil to the death bed masks of ancestors,
who made glory a partner against multitudes of dangers,such as living without loyalty,
encouraged by Her gravitas,Her need for a hero,I stared into those vacant eyes
on the pedestals held upright by iron frames,and I heard them chant I must for Her,
made so lovely with a crown of moon glow,
I kissed this Woman's hand,heaven in my sight,
my oath to vindicate Her from profane might,
I awoke facing a mirror,believing in Her dearly,
my headgear fastened and plumed,
feathers of a hawk and eagle divinely sprout atop,
from then I only knew Her words,and a dreamy picture,
however,I trusted Her affection,I could live on Her meaning -
J.A.B.
Stellar Night
Rip up the script deep inside the trained
monkeys in your mind. Utter shallow pleasantries
as the world watches the evolved caterpillars
inching closer and closer to perfection.
Nowhere does it say all your cards need to be
played face-up. Even circus animals have a
secret life….albeit restrained, which only politicians
fully understand.
At night, or what passes for darkness on this planet
I inhabit, the great view of the two moons
from my portico fairly scream eternity…..not a
comfortable environment, given the current state
of inter-planetary travel, I so much enjoy.
The cost of the fuel cells needed to power my
electro-magnetic warp drives are placing a heavy
burden on my mining operations back on Earth,
….at least that is what my accountant tells me.
A dog wrote a love letter to his newfound girlfriend
A cat, although his language she didn’t understand.
When you came to live in our house I burnt in envy
For you had taken away half the attention from me.
Days passed, I got to get used to your sure presence
Being sad or angry for state not in control had no sense.
You walked on silent paws around the portico in grace
Watching you in amorous motion I felt my heart race.
You exuded feline beauty with full moon in your eyes
Your white silky fur tinged blue made my passion rise.
I heard you purr many times at night perhaps in delight
Sound turned a song, I knew I’m in love, not at first sight.
You won’t understand if I tell you how my feelings pine
So I shall learn your language or you try and learn mine.
November 5, 2017.
Gray clouds banked moisture filled now wait
A warm lustrous sun rips
Flashing beams illuminate earth
Wants to curtail frost's nip
Fog curtains spring's green 'pon the trees
The distance just a blur
Birds excitedly sing love's tunes
Nesting secrets occur
Take a deep breath now be renewed
Springtime a joy divine
If only it could be spring each day
Not summer's hot design
Spring in it perfection touches hearts
Reaches the soul each time
It brings out the best of nature
All of joy in mankind
What if it were this very day
When Jesus' shouts come forth
The earth releasing its saved dead
Those living saved by His worth
Gathered in heavenly places
Face to face meet God's Son
Will it be in this springtime's joy
Will you be one of the ones
My park to me was not see-saws nor swings
instead, a treasure chest of stranger things.
A marble grave, 1891, well kept
where 'Tiny', estate owner's dog now slept.
The long gone Manor House front Portico
and where the star struck teenage lovers go
holds carvings, some initials, from the past
though in one case someone had left their last.
Script ' E Potts joined navy 1943'
Did such detail writ mean 'remember me'?
So many times I've gazed upon his name
that plea cut deep in stone it's power retains.
His call over the years still engraved there
since boyhood I have offered up a prayer.
The culvert is a concrete tour de force
too tempting for adventurers, of course.
Amphitheatre for screaming, scary,
in heavy rain, tomb for the unwary.
Mill races, lock gates, tunnels, falls and weirs
all testing grounds for our deep darkest fears.
There was no challenge our band could resist
we cocked a snook, and nature raised a fist.
Returning home, triumphant, green with moss,
in trouble, but we didn't give a toss.
The moment was our game and joy the prize,
such treasure blind to all but children's eyes.
Seek us out, the park was where you found us,
Green fields of innocence, it's magic bound us.
Feb 14th 2016
For contest 'The Park', sponsored by Craig Cornish.
A couple of ruins leave the cathedrals
nave and portico;
it is always molting season,
mice and beetles help
they nibble and gnaw,
wind-laborer’s, labor,
their whiplash backs bent,
to lever slates and all things loosened.
The sanctified, they guard their stony hearts
but the edges were made to crumble,
made to be returned to rubble.
The two twined ruins
exiting these ancient piles
were created to be spans and transits
for the upliftment of saintly figures,
no one will miss them, yet their
plinths, their buttresses
their embossments
until recently
held a small alcove heavenwards
a niche, that will probably
lose its faith soon,
toppling one year at a time
into an agnostic downfall.
The two ruins are so disfigured
as to be nothing at all,
but they are moving in mysterious ways
to where a tireless worker
will help them rise again,
but of course dust will stir up dust,
the mice and the beetles
will continue
to nibble and gnaw, however
the Maker will be ready
once more
to return dust to cathedrals.
The woman married at a young age
to the eldest son of a farmer-
my maternal uncle and neighbor.
Usually, she woke up early at the crow's caw
and swept the dirt floor of the house with a broom
often wiping it with water and a nura ( wet cloth )
After that she took a bath, changed her clothes
and wiped with water the surface before the holy Basil(Tulsi)
in the middle of the courtyard
as well as the surfaces at the portico and inside the house
where the family Deities traditionally reside.
After these tasks, she prayed the Deities and holy Basil
while burning mekruk(,an incense).
The prayer was once again repeated at dusk
lighting a lantern or candle.
As a routine she grinding,hand-pounding
and flapping paddy,(sometimes cutting firewood)
alone or with a sister- in -law,
cooking food( burning firewood) and serving the family members,
cleaning the kitchen and utensils after the food served.
After these she washed clothes for the family members.
And in the afternoon she wove clothes
at the fly scuttle loom in the outhouse.
Besides, she helped the neighbours in times of need.
She treated her father-in-law and mother-in-law with devotion,
regarded her husband's younger siblings
as if they were her own children.
Many children were born to her
but, she died prematurely at the age of seventy.
After her death I sometimes remember her
as one of the symbols of traditional housewives
of the old past .
.
(Fourth in the Poetry Contest entitled " Mother's Day" sponsored by Benjamin Bartley )