Long Presage Poems
Long Presage Poems. Below are the most popular long Presage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Presage poems by poem length and keyword.
A dark blue midnight awning has its portrait,
etched by a a starlit silver lustrous galaxy,
silhouette of black lace frilled clouds,
in somber quietude adrift beneath a vibrant pearl,
amber moon whose gleaming radiance bemused awhile,
at the stark underbelly of flickering candles,
that the urban nocturne spellbound revel in perchance,
sleep pattern held captive by ethereal bliss,
angelic dreams wrapped in opal tincture,
what optic relishes await at early first light,
a colourfast dawn unveils it’s bronze bespoke banner,
heaven bound yellow flare insouciant whim,
red orange burst sky a stirring presage,
for wingspan flight of stone gray plume creature,
natural world usher whose gold throat cadence,
rouses wonderment among the persimmon trees,
tapping into human yearning for awestruck omen,
Kashmir bright velvet hue azimuth a scant gem,
yet sapphire orb twinkles close or distant lure
might embolden dull minds with ardent spark
Weird, strange, illusion, dream, nonsense; words plenty since ever
To overcome fear, avoid confusion, maintain commonsense or whatever!
But this story of mine is an experience I record as game of nature;
Revisiting it, wondering on the hows and whys over the years as I grew mature.
The answer only he held; the one who wished to live life careless and carefree!
Then one day he sunk in the marsh and died, setting her widowed mother free
As if of all frustrations and reproaches from kin, peers and so many in the locality!
A good soul he had met once who admonished him, patiently
And left him in some good hands who could guide him start anew.
He tried to change but at his own time, as of what was in future he had no clue.
What thoughts in mind and what visions froze in eyes closing to death? One phone call to the good soul after a year; as if from other realm, a message.
His name he left, saying to tell that good soul he had called; was it a presage?
That good soul ready ever to help called a friend who related to him in melancholy;
That very morning, he had been to the boy’s one year after death ceremony!
The good soul sat in shock; he didn't even know about his death a year back.
In trance he walked to his fiancée's house; over night he talked to her about him, in flashback!
(I wrote a short story on this. Based on true experience in 1993, some months before my wedding. It was during the “Pitra Paksh” (Fete des morts in Hindi) – here we are actually in this period which ends on 1st oct 2016. The boy met my fiancé, a youth worker, who had some words with him and his family. He never met him again. Among Hindus the final after death ceremony is performed after one year of death and it is believed that the soul, if not departed earlier, has to after the last and final ceremony)
wild wind whipping
trees bend and thrash
leaves rudely torn off
gardens trashed
blackening skies
presage the storm
rain drops attack
and hail pellets form
shattering glass
in windows and doors
denting parked cars
as a deluge pours.
dark cloud funnel
from the northwest,
veers as it wanders
at its whim’s behest
sending shingles aloft
people to basements
flooded streets paved
with pieces of casements
bedframes and couches,
bedsheets and books
leaving nothing but rubble
of old neighborhoods
hiding in terror we
hear all the ruckus
and pray the capricious
storm will bend by us.
Faerie Gran asleep high up on a blue shelf.
Gremlins had messed things up with Obo their funny elf.
Washing dishes with her faerie dancing feet
PreSage Blue Sweet Faerie could keep a lively beat.
Mama of this family had finally gone to bed.
She was truly exhausted, sleeping like the grateful dead.
On her plate were two children, the oldest barely three.
Mama needed her rest, so we were as quiet as we could be.
We had tiptoed through the garden, flown above the gate.
Faerie Gran had cautioned us, so none of us were late.
White Pure Sister Faerie was consoling Baby Faerie now,
He had pricked his thumb on a needle and was putting up a row.
Soap bubbles began serenading us in their rainbow way.
We were having delightful fun, for cleaning is our play.
Faerie Gran fell off the shelf, before we were completely done.
Her wings kept her in the air, which added to our wholesome fun.
So little known of Mary's man,
Only that he was righteous, just.
Betrothal gone afoul of plan,
He sought divorce, discrete, no fuss.
Did you have doubts of your betrothed,
A fleeting thought to cause some harm,
As you imagined her unclothed,
Tight in another man's strong arms?
And as the child in her womb grew,
As whispers, furtive glances came,
Were dreams by angels given you
Enough to overcome the shame?
When she was racked with labor pains,
With no rooms left, were you still able
To Mary joyfully proclaim
The Lord’s provision in a stable?
When came the pilgrims from the East,
Brought gold and frankincense and myrrh,
Did you see these for king and priest,
Or gifts to which you'd grow inured?
When called to Egypt in the night,
Just out of reach from Herod's clutch,
Did you in midst of desert flight,
Feel vulnerable or panic much?
Or were there times in playful fun,
Just you, your wife, your baby child,
See him as Christ, the Holy One
Through whom God's children reconciled?
With hammer, nails, at early age,
A carpenter, this child you taught.
Did it, in wildest dreams, presage
The means by which he ransom bought?
When you in haste to temple went,
And he told you in your distress,
"My Father's house,” where he'd be found,
Did his response provide redress?
And after, what became of you?
Some have suggested that you died
An early death, perhaps best too,
For who could watch son crucified?
Though Scripture does not much record,
The part you played was shortly done,
One can imagine your reward:
Eternity with God the Son.
Sans Sixth (psychic) non Sense...
Posing As Dystopian Rant
This prognosticator doth predict
potential based at current rate
sinister debacle that will
instantaneously annihilate,
which alarming (ohm my dog) turbulent
endemic chaotic spate
within human race poised to strike
doom and generate
shock tummy once amp pull goldenlocks,
now revealing a shiny baldpate
erratic behavior attendant prescient
intimations presage apocalyptic fate
while current commander in chief
didst unwittingly generate,
and sow the seeds of anarchy sparking
global conflagration that will create
instantaneous prime evil
total mortal kombat, cuz "FAKE" mandate
issued, when Trump went ballistic
loose sing rockets red glare,
when pressing hot button to demonstrate
thermonuclear supremacy,
sans 3D printable bomb
(albeit a moot point),
would render superfluous need way to late
to draft intestate
last (or perchance first, second,
third...) will and testament, tete a tete
perhaps minuscule (nee
infinitesimal) ordnance out of date
turns out a Department of Defense dud
eh, no surprise as aye narrate
finding Don tremendously irate
(blaming "crooked Hillary," democrats,
spongebobsquarepants,...yours truly...)
the list goes on, thus no need to iterate,
thus a sudden religious fervor gripped
the wide webbed world
attributing why weapons did not actuate,
which found pontiff in high demand
in an attempt to accommodate
frenzied zeal attributing aborted blitzkrieg
to divine intervention with bajillion
talking heads airing where to dedicate
material trappings to indigent, great
full not dead, plus those petty
criminals rightly or wrongly,
the strong arm of
lanced law did incarcerate
bowed down on daily and nightly basis
exploding huzzahs every
human did ejaculate
"not prematurely," where
all walks of life integrate,
a spontaneous international
utopian revelation awoke
with linkedin diversity to promulgate
protecting the planet took precedence
yea right Matthew Scott - dear mate
only in the context of this poem I did create.
Can you feel the tendrils falling?
Autumnal threads only visible
to the sensory sight of the soul
a receptivity and prenotion
that sweeps over you ever so lightly.
Then, even though the sun is up and shining,
and grassy places still are green,
the changing colors of Autumn
have begun their slow fall,
there is 'something in the air.'
something there unseen.
The chill vaults of the night are opening,
shedding forebodings and worriment's,
tenuous tendrils tumble,
reaping's they are, even so they transport
the emptiness of the unseen seed,
the essence of every new birth
the promise of eternal renewal,
and when that first leaf drops,
seesawing its way to earth,
many may give thanks,
looking forward
to those beautiful hues of death.
In the hush, hush silence of a twilight eve
Heard the gentle crooning of a dove.
She was nestling close to her love.
What thrill its lingering echo did give!
It opened in me the inlets of delight,
When my heart was longing for love.
My blues, it did instantly shove,
Illumining my heart with blazing light!
The sight and sound of those birds in love,
Roused in me a throng of lovely sensation,
Making my heart and spirit rise in elation-
A presage of love’s fruition from Heaven above.
With their merry crooning that resounded from far,
In my heart, hope’s flame began burning bright.
I felt like swimming in the sea of delight,
At the thought, I would soon have my love near.
He makes me feel safe even in the storms of life.
In the thoughts of his presence, my heart takes flight.
When he holds my strings, I am like a well navigated kite.
As far as he is with me, I come through life’s every strife.
In every adversity, it is the hope of his love,
That pulls me and gives my heart a buoyant lift.
With the warmth of his love, from life, all dark clouds drift.
How I wish to be nestled close to him as this happy pair of doves!
By what labyrinthine repetitions,
by what agile, precise divisions,
by what accretions, do we compile
a life's arcane hieroglyphs,
its subtle, unmathematic mysteries?
What cold calculus shall we yet invent
to construct the introspective model?
What distribution curve, what standard deviation,
shall predict the time remaining 'tll we exist
entirely in a universe of our own creation?
Shall we make of stars mere red-shifted
spectral lines on photographic plates?
Will heartache be reduced to sine waves,
mapped by styli on graduated rolls
revolving in precise concurrence
with computed average biologic rates?
Shall we expunge the record from the file,
shall we precipitate a system crash?
What key will be called escape and which restore?
What impulse may span the neural gap,
what synapsis presage what deity?
And will there be a world left to explore?
Will we stop to soliloquize?
What obeisance shall we require?
Piety is no mark of barren earth and rocks,
nor of sterile wind and raging fire.
Poor maid scurries,
Getting more anxious as she hurries,
Timidly passes on the message,
With a feeling of strong presage,
Grumpy prince huffs and pushes past,
Making the maid bow hurriedly, fast,
Leaving video games sloppily piled on the bed,
Stepfather proposes idea, prince fled,
Inspirational short speech to best friend,
Into the woods, he told he would blend,
Spoiled boy looks for aunt’s cottage in woods,
Massages, spoiled with all kinds of goods,
Rude but has good looks,
Every bit of a fairytale prince in the books,
Princess watches, wishes, wants, and plans,
Becomes one of the many brainwashed fans,
Believing his stories about his ‘evil’ stepfather,
The watching princess made such a pother,
About rescuing the selfish prince,
His terrible nature not once making her wince,
One day a salesman sells calls $10 consoles,
Hope fills the prince’s soul,
The princess is convinced it’s the king,
So out of the tree she swings,
Mind made up she’s saving,
Prince thinks she’s raving,
Screams for her to let him go,
At making people cry, he’s a pro,
Princess realizes she doesn’t need a man to rule,
Prince never uses anyone like a tool,
They both change and grow into better people.