Long Premature Poems
Long Premature Poems. Below are the most popular long Premature by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Premature poems by poem length and keyword.
In canvas of existence, a masterpiece unfolds,
Beautiful things take time, like tales of old.
A symphony of moments, intricately designed,
Each stroke of seconds, a work of art divine.
Like petals of roses, tenderly they sway,
Unfurling beauty, with each passing day.
The sculptor's chisel, chips away with care,
Revealing majesty, beyond compare.
Seasons of growth, like layers of earth,
Nourish the seedling, of radiant birth.
Sunbeams of patience, illuminate the way,
Guiding the journey, through life's busy day.
Rivers of time, flow smoothly to sea,
Shaping the shores, of destiny.
The weaver's loom, threads of experience spin,
Tapestry of wisdom, with each passing kin.
Oh, beautiful things, don't rush to the stage,
For premature blooms, wither in life's gauge.
Let moments mature, like ripening fruit,
Savoring sweetness, in patience's pursuit.
In patience's crucible, gold is refined,
Purified by fire, the heart and mind.
The beauty of time, like sunrise unfurls,
Revealing splendor, in life's whorls.
Embrace the wait, don't rush the pace,
For beautiful things take time, in every place.
Let patience's palette, paint life's design,
And beauty will bloom, in its own sweet time.
Clarity, clarity, surely clarity is the most beautiful thing in the world, A limited, limiting clarity I have not and never did have any motive of poetry But to achieve clarity.
George Oppen
If it wasn't for poetry,
how would we portray stars of clarity?
Moon would appear silently ordinary,
how would we express that which is contrary?
Verses without stardust shimmer would be horrid,
no metrical composition would sound torrid.
No sapphire skies nor turquoise tides.
No ivory shores nor firefly guides.
No magic of butterflies dancing under moonlight.
A travesty of no lullabies to ease before midnight.
Horizons would appear blank, dismal and dark -
your muted muse would forfeit their spark.
If a poet's conscience suffers a premature death,
how would you honour their quill's last breath?
How would you express that painful goodbye?
No legacy for our words to poetically beautify.
Unable to honour memories of the deceased -
an unwritten elegy cannot praise a masterpiece.
Autumn would just be a modified season.
Spring slowly blossom without a reason.
Summer would bring no wonder in flowers.
Winter would be grey with freezing showers.
Would music suffer from atrocious lyrics,
unmetered songs only lead to hysterics.
Would poetic love exist?
Would our lips have ever kissed?
No expressions to defeat hate.
No epodic justice to fate.
No sweet sonnets to revere.
Shakespeare's world would disappear.
Romeo would not woo Juliet.
Literature students would forget
bards who bled ballads before us -
what would lovers have to discuss?
No angst or alliterations.
No 3am damnations.
No syllable creations.
No lustful flirtations.
An end to narrations.
All lost translations.
If there were only ugly words,
would it be the end of singing birds?
No emancipation of the oppressed.
No catharsis for the depressed.
Hearts would repress and suppress.
Demons would stress and digress.
If it wasn't for poetry,
I would still be a mystery.
I would not speak in rhymes,
there would be nothing to define.
My soul a misunderstood metaphor,
drowning in an inkless reservoir.
Life would become a burden,
as petals die in my poetic garden
and after everything has been said and done,
there would be no Poetic One.
The poem with no name.
There is a black raven at my tail, as I walk down the street;
It foretells me my tale will no longer taste so sweet.
The end is nigh, I hear from upon high;
In darkness I hear, the shriek of the beast.
I am coming to meet you, my maker;
Are you sure you are ready to meet me?
I will courteously scream at you, what have you taken away?
My life, your judgment; what a price to pay!
Too short was this living; your retort had better be good!
No I don’t understand! Who on Earth could?
This darkness you befell upon me is bitter indeed;
Without you to blame and scream at, what have I left to bleed?
A soul snatched from this world and elevated beyond this life;
In God’s eyes I find meaning, to my premature demise.
What countless men before me, have suffered the same fate?
I see two angels at God’s shoulders; I guess he sent his Devil away.
I kneel before benevolence and beg for forgiveness.
The voice of angel’s raise my spirit;
Their songs of joy are relentless.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
“I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”
Chuck Palahniuk
Is there such a metaphor as an avalanche of time?
Each second can be cold, but never freezes,
but we all know a landslide once triggered,
can bury fragile foundations into oblivion.
Sometimes life is scripted into a pantomime of pretend.
Darkness crawls at dawn.
There's a sour stench in the air,
ascending from an aromatherapy of agony and ache.
She's crying again. Her demons smiling.
This is no melodrama,
as crimson discolours the whites of her eyes,
with dripping mascara staining sore dark circles -
as 3am fears are released through a flood of tears.
Her spirit is a malady of misery,
lusting for an end from this state of deadly delirium.
In each tear there is a sign,
an unveiled message lost in silent flows -
as anxiety's asphyxiation grows.
Time has become her nemesis.
Turning her intellect into foolish bitterness.
It's a dilemma creating false hopes,
resulting in broken dreams and forgotten promises.
Destiny keeps playing games with her spirit,
whilst fate falters like premature butterflies.
Only her heart knows the truth of her heart -
She hides behind a veil of personal poison.
In the molestation of her mind,
she kisses the silence in between each echo,
yet the sands of time bring her no respite.
People keep throwing stones,
bruising her every time,
she has no desire to live as a victim
of broken pieces from her past,
but wounds keep resurfacing.
Tired from drinking venomous embers of elixir,
which pierce like shards of sorrow,
penetrating an eternal hole in her soul,
she cries for healing and understanding.
But In a world full of dark skies and rain,
her sanity slowly fades,
like a paper bag of emotions,
floating in a muddy puddle within a concrete pot hole.
Intoxicated by kismet's chalice of impatience,
she has learned fate has no mercy,
it offers no remedy to soothe her sorrows,
nor heal her horrors.
her life is a metaphor known as an avalanche of time.
P o e t r y fills my heart
with lyrical acrolect:
slowly swaying
my fingers
to outstanding octaves,
through
ecstatic
liberated librettos,
uplifting in a
medley of
melancholic motions.
I n k is bleeding
in nocturnal nouns,
composing charismatic
choruses in
eclectic shades~
of
violet and vermilion,
and quiet quill
is still searching
for a
sentimental serene serenade,
every letter
meticulously moonwalks
between lines
of silver and grey,
engrossing beats
of a heavy heart
in subtle
soulful synonyms.
In a dynamic
world of word weaving,
poet’s depict a
choir of chronicles
from
mellifluous escapades,
merged in
magnetic metaphors
and synchronized similes,
glamorizing pain
in heavenly
harmonious juxtapositions,
whilst singing tales
of oxymorons,
ranting through a
rhythm of rhymes,
forming sonorous sonnets
with sensitive syllables.
But these are
encrypted musings
of my citrine heart.
In realms of a reality
that dreams breathless~
behind a
terrain of tercets
and porcelain prose.
For life as
an abundant artist
is a premature platform,
where e m o t i o n s
are expressed through
introverted introspections
once hidden in
the hush of hours.
In the terrane of deplorable deprivation manifested
in the wasteland of wretched desertion,
the obscure tufts of the subdued slender grass
struggle to rise through the cleavage of stony destiny.
The frail faces shaping the artifacts of spiteful fate,
flicker with the fading smile of residual innocence,
borrowed from the remnant rays of the forsaken sun,
already sunk in the depth of desolate dark horizon.
The children when they should be blooming like flowers,
stray to nowhere, uncared and soiled
in the harsh squall of the juvenile servile servitude.
Under the fair freedom spread by the unbound sky
the infantile dewdrops devoid of pristine patina
no longer bejewel the puerile grass of our meadow.
Tarnished by the muck of our malevolent times,
the deranged dreams of the dew dry premature.
In the twilight hour on the penultimate journey,
I wish I could give the last rays of my setting sun
to the relics of the dewdrops so they can glow awhile.
I wish I could drip the last drop of empathy from my oasis,
so their innocent smile doesn’t desiccate in inimical desert.
Just one thing I’d like to change is to stop child labor,
show the children of the lesser God
the dreams of dew that would never die.
Good evening, my love, in the pale light of memories that settle like a gentle mist over the soul,
I await you with the impatience of a traveler lost on the platform of a station forgotten by time,
Hoping you'll bring with you continents of mysteries dancing on the starry sky,
A train of lonely thoughts whistling melancholically through the tunnels of the heart.
Good evening, my love, my words trickle like autumn rain over the barren land of reality,
Few and rare are the sacred things that still shine in this universe of shadows,
Fragile loves, extinguished before finding fulfillment, buried in premature graves,
I wait for you to bring that spark that can reignite the flame of eternity.
Good evening, my love, invisible walls rise between us, trying to enclose in cages of silence
The word "longing," struggling to escape and find its way to our hearts,
Many are those who want to lock our love in a labyrinth of oblivion and lose it in nothingness,
But we, my love, know that our love is above any bolt, stronger than any lock.
Good evening, my love, in this world where illusions unravel like a dream at the break of dawn,
I wait for you as if our love alone remained steadfast in this realm of the ephemeral,
A guiding star that shines beyond falls and rises, beyond words and silences,
I wait for us to dance together to the eternal rhythm of hearts that refuse to fade.
Betrayal devastates your trusting heart,
severing the bonds of love from the start.
And depression slowly entraps your soul,
as disparaging lies exact their toll.
Chameleon clouds change to match your mood,
releasing teardrops, sad emotions brewed.
And at the crossroads of sane and insane,
your heart breaks, under the weight of your pain.
A fickle Sun no longer shares its light,
sulking in the shadows, gathered by Night.
And feigning feelings, you struggle to cope,
for a broken heart cannot harbor Hope.
At the end of the tunnel, there's no light,
everything appears dark: obscured by fright:
And the specter of fear festers in dreams;
fueling night terrors and silent screams.
The promise of tomorrow made to youth
was written on yesterday's fragile truth.
And like a vino, decanted in haste,
love's a premature wine with a sour taste.
The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch
(for my mother, Christine Ena Burch)
The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,
his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.
His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.
His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.
Alternate Title: "Poetry Slam: The Hangup"
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poems, poetry, poetic expression, rhyme, editor, publisher, mother, readers, recite, recitation, reciting, performance, writing, reading, rap, slam, phone, telephone
In the bond between my father and me,
Best friends we stand, understanding silently.
He, aware of my literary love,
My passion for technology, soaring above.
A laptop, my haven, where life's stories unfold,
In its glow, my narrative, bright and bold.
My mother, my ally, ever steadfast,
Knows me more than my father, unsurpassed.
Her counsel echoes from the first time I roamed,
"Be good, kind, humble, in a world unadorned.
Respect all, judge none, hold these virtues close,
Yet, expect not the same from those life chose."
Daily I live by her sage advice,
In her eyes, a son, virtuous and nice.
Yet, my father, perceiving me as frail,
Brands me a coward, a judgment set to assail.
At home, discord in the echoes of attire,
My father insists on a responsible attire.
T-shirts and jeans, expressions of self,
A battleground where opinions delve.
Outside the family, shielded from critique,
Yet within, my choices, a topic oblique.
Love, a subject my father deems premature,
"Wait for the right time, the right allure."
Blessed, I am, with a father's wise decree,
A protector, a guide, shaping destiny.
He dreams of bearing my burdens, heavy and light,
A general leading, urging me to the fight.
A call home, my mother's voice I hear,
Conversations free, void of fear.
Money's scarcity, a topic we discuss,
Life's gift, she says, more valuable than us.
Agreeing casually, her sentiment I share,
Cherishing life, beyond worldly affair.
Then my father speaks, a different tone,
"Money's not vital, but too much is known.
Reflect, son, on wealth's pivotal part,
In its excess, lies life's true art."
He, an advocate for abundance,
Never settling for less, a life of substance.
Lucky, indeed, with both by my side,
Parents' gift, a treasure, in joy and stride.
Each day, I hold their presence dear,
A testament to love, unwavering and clear.
Date: 6 April 2021
Contest: Writing Prompt - Cherish - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
~Placed Third