Long Prettily Poems
Long Prettily Poems. Below are the most popular long Prettily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prettily poems by poem length and keyword.
I smell something so beautiful!
Many different fragrances are drifting toward me.
So many sachets of poetry are prettily displayed.
Such visual delights!
I stoop to relish one - a citrus blend
with sweet anise and cinnamon.
Ah! How fun this poem is with its taste of licorice!
And here’s one that is rather sensuous.
Its aroma is the clove,
clary sage, bergamot, and rose.
How luscious! I linger at this one for a while. . .
Now I lean in toward the scent of chamomile.
This poem soothes the spirit
with its lavender and jasmine blooms in it.
Oh, here is one not only sweet but spicy!
Coriander wafts my way
with cinnamon and ginger. Such a treat to savor!
Next I view a bowl
filled with myrrh and frankincense.
And what else?
Why, it’s the earthy scent of sandalwood
with a touch of patchouli for good measure.
My, this is an epic poem to treasure.
Right next to it I spy a tiny one -
a packet of herbs and other little things,
But oh, how sweet its fragrance
of nutmeg, citrus and vanilla. Indeed, I’ve found a gem.
And here is one completely fresh - a most creative blend
of lemon, lavender and pine. It is divine!
Now a strong scent of sweetness comes to me,
This time from lavender laced
with small petals Of germaniums, and again,
the wondrous cinnamon
that takes my mind far back
to sentimental scenes of childhood.
Balsamic and earthy is the final poem that tempts me
with cedar wood, spruce and fir -
another one with thoughts of life and nature
to ponder as I linger one last time. . .
Then I must leave this sanctuary.
Day after day -
how I love to fill my senses
with poetry potpourri!
May 1, 2016 for Linda's Poetry _______ (fill in the blank) Poetry Contest
(hope I did it right this time!)
How beautiful is what I see today
peeking from the green
and almost unseen,
blossoming for me – the first rose of May!
While she’s in the pink,
time is but a blink.
In this merry month, oblivious is she
to what’s to come as she poses prettily -
destiny evading
Her joy for now is sweet. What can she know
of life’s suffering?
She hears robins sing.
On her face, tears are but a dewy glow.
She is hope anew
now that she’s in view!
Will she – like me – feel her soul plunge to sorrow?
Or will I – like her – be until tomorrow
destiny evading. . .
a wish faint and fading?
May 21, 2018 for Broken Wing's "Let Your Pen Drip" Contest
Uses Gregory Barden's invented Qarinage Rhyme Pattern. See notes above.
For 'THE CRAP SHOOT POETRY CONTEST' Poetry Contest of John Lawless
It began as an idea.
Hopped up on my dendrite highway.
Zoomed through my wide-open interstate and took me on a ride.
I was holding on as hard as I could.
A smile turned into a flat out worldwide laugh.
Idea one turned herself into upside down girl,
Flatulent gorilla, chameleon on a stick.
A poem? A canvas? A play? A book?
A novel? Possibilities overtook me
And threw me into a soft nap.
Ideas do this to me sometime.
To percolate prettily while I sleep.
I never color inside the box,
Because I do not see a box,
I always see a diamond or a star.
My hazel eyes on the prize, I took out my favorite glitzy paints and began to devour myself.
On a canvas, on the wall.
Drew the brush swiftly onto the wall and down onto the floor.
Never stopping, happily, zanily out of control, abnormal to some,
Completely normal to me.
Beginning once again to create what will become a teensy bit of me...
Fully into the
Kingdom of “be yourself” which my dancy, prancy muse and I will leave
In my wake at my wake.
Furiously creating a non-final me.
Written 12-14-2019 Contest: Creativity in Visual Arts
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
There’s a small village not so far away
anyone who hears it dreams to be there,
Its beauty lures like white fairies at bay-
their billowy gowns prettily unfurl;
As its homes sprout as mushrooms of winter,
scooped by mountains like petals of flower.
When we ride to ascend its spiral road,
curtains of snowflakes are crystals in view
Winter wonderland is right there, behold!
At the swinging bridge over river-snow,
when you frolic around, feels no adieu
Lulls notes of perfection, not made askew.
Night comes around, nocturnal critters sound
to keep its eternal fascination
While animals scamper on thick snow ground
lit by tiny lamps on trees, let’s sojourn
to embrace the glorious celebration-
Winter Wonderland’s Yuletide Season.
Takayama is Winter Wonderland,
Not so far away, it’s found in Japan.
Dec. 30, 2018 10.50am
A try of Urban sonnet in 10syllables
ABABBB- CDCDDD- EFEFFF-GG
A poem in remembrance on one of the cities I visited last March 4-7, 2018 in Japan.
She is new, this servant girl, a wench, who should mean nothing
I am the lord of the manor.
Anyway, someday I will be.
Not yet, for I am but sixteen.
What is her name? I wonder, straining to hear it.
Beyond the kitchen I hear a name, but barely.
Not strong enough to make it out.
Dare I enter the kitchen? It is never done.
I am too high brow to be welcome in there.
She comes through with a plate of croissants.
Smiles prettily, making me angry for some weird reason.
Why does she haunt my dreams? This common beauty?
I want to ask her name, but dare not. It is not done.
Lord of the manor, but not lord of my words?
I glower at the croissants.
How dare they bring my dream into fruition.
She counted the candles
with the arithmetic of an ancient angel,
the impertinent years of her life fuelled the flames slowly
patiently, and prettily,
a flicker for the fast joys, a standstill for the sorrows,
she knew very well how age brought trials, tears, and triumphs,
and she believed in life after death
as a dove believes in the upcoming morning,
to the field of birthday fire
she blew a blissfully blue breath
the lights waved and vanished like startled wraiths,
yet there was one stubborn candle
that seemed to glow upon her quiet heart
revealing with a direct warmness...
You either live inspired, or you die -
J.A.B.
Bejeweled, in and out of the Gothic architecture,
Conceived by Abbot Suger, through a constant conjecture;
With perfect glasswork etched out of the then-time silica,
Found its place In Saint-Denis Cathedral Basilica...!
Modestly outsized splash-smeared gorgeous goblet casements,
Renaissance classic styled stone accent wall sacred basements;
Prettily pointed piercing cumulative curly curves,
Rib vaults great and small intertwining like the war of nerves...!
Soaring airborne ramparts; metaphysical adornments;
Perpendicular proportions; lopsided floral fronts;
Steady solemn designs that flounce upward in height and grace;
Domed arched ceilings that charms of times, ages, and eras embrace...!
With no shrinks and wrinkles like the perfection of pure youth,
Enticing grand elegance like the fullness of the truth;
Tracery is a treasury of architectural forms,
Within which dwell, fine ethereal elemental norms...!!!
26 January 2023
TRACERY Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Bubbling up in a spidery translucent glow
Cellophane rainbows pranced prettily
It was a mysterious concoction fit for the gods
or in this case a goddess of prophecy who had forgotten herself
Shaddah had brought her best ingredients to the amethyst altar
Using her Grandmother Jeannie’s famous Wiccan kettle
Mixer of the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter
Translucent neon colors rose into the spellbound ether
Shaddah felt whole for the first time in ten years
Perhaps she was worthy of her grandmother’s beliefs
About her goodness and her prophetic abilities
Talents and ideals she had forgotten began to swirl in front of her eyes
Glorious paintings created themselves inside the mist
She knew she was looking into the future, and she was the artist
Poetry and songs began developing inside the mist
Windows slammed shut as if by an invisible hand, startling her
Shaddah was alone in the dark, staring into a mirror like elixir
Her hopes and dreams and wishes were all here
Parading around saucily, daring her to be herself
Was she up to the challenge? A whisper told her she was ready.
So many memories I have are summer-colored,
like those walking-down-the-lane days recalled in various hues of green.
Green for Grandpa’s cornfields spread all around us
and green for the grass on which my sisters and I used to run and play.
Besides that color green, which prettily surrounded me through all my childhood,
I think a favorite memory would be
the colors of one lovely day spent with my family,
the family created by my spouse and me and a day our kids were young.
We lived near San Francisco.
Few troubles plagued us then and I loved our short time in California!
One summer day at last we went to see the beach of Santa Cruz.
I don’t remember details of everything we did.
We walked along the boardwalk, naturally.
I’m sure the kids, both pre-teens, enjoyed the rides.
Even I was every bit as excited as the two of them.
I’m sure my spouse and I took pictures, ate good-tasting food
and watched our children doing things all children love to do.
But what stood out for me was our time spent on the beach
and how we all jumped up to greet each wave that tumbled toward us
time and time again to knock us down.
What pure pleasure in the splashes of blue that fun-filled day,
the blue of the Pacific, which chilled me at the start
until I warmed to it as the yellow sun in blue of sky above
smiled down on us.
Yes, the blue of sky and water
and the constant shining yellow of the sun:
those would be the colors of my favorite summer memory -
when times were good and we were young and simply having fun.
For the Summertime Contest of Janis Thompson
Every night the sirens sing
To lead the lonely man astray.
And to be honest, I must say
I often hear them sweetly call.
In my ears the echoes ring,
So near and yet so far away,
And I forget I am the prey,
Before them weak and small.
Every night the sirens sing.
They beckon me their voice to heed.
They say my every want and need
Will, at last, be satisfied.
And like a puppet on a string
I follow everywhere they lead
But in the end I must concede
How prettily they lied.
Dashed against the rock and stone,
I lay there beaten, bruised to bone.
Their voices gone, I’m all alone
Bloodied by their wicked scheme.
I slowly crawl back to my bed,
A vow of fortitude in my head.
But even though the prayer is said
Still I hunger for the dream.
Every night the sirens sing
To lead this lonely man astray.
I struggle so to disobey
The sweet and yet elusive call.
Yet, still the puppet on a string,
Their harmonies about me play
And I forget I am the prey,
Before them weak and small.