Long Profound Poems
Long Profound Poems. Below are the most popular long Profound by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Profound poems by poem length and keyword.
An ancient substance,
circling from the sky to the ground,
in its earthly home,
it flows profound.
With a body of jade blue,
twined with occasional rivets of light
it carries the thread of history from before
to now and beyond
traversing milennia worth of night and day.
It holds a captivating and mysterious past
on this tiny blue planet of ours,
in this universe so vast;
time is nothing to it in contrast.
It will remain here.
Far longer than you or I,
indeed far past humans as a whole.
It will stay in its cycle from darkness to light,
a lasting memory, a testament to the Earth.
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
To a place full of colourful lights.
I was having a beer with Nelson Mandela,
And we talked about our own civil rights.
He put down his drink and quietly said,
“It always seems impossible until it’s done”.
And then he just vanished, replaced by a tin hatted soldier,
Blood covered from World War 1.
He looked numb and dead, behind bleary eyes,
And didn’t really want to talk at all.
I think he wanted to weep, for the people in his mind,
When he let go a short mournful squall.
And then Jackson Pollock walked in, with a smile and a grin,
With a new paint of his crazy Blue Polls.
He shook hands with the soldier and gave him his painting,
Saying this is for all the lost souls.
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
Where everything seemed so extreme.
Can’t wait for tonight, when again, civil rights can be done,
In another profound, definitively chaotic dream.
This is for Brian Davey's "My cousin chaos" contest.
The writer’s prose like fluid flowed
Across half-a-thousand gilded pages,
With flowered images and profound lines
The was last throughout the ages.
But the follow-up, it got two stars
And critics dog-piled the hate.
Sometimes we shine with sheen of gold,
Other times we’re naught by clay.
The little boy bounded down the hall
And found his father working there,
Struggling with a broken socket,
But the boy was quite unaware.
When he spoke his father snapped,
In tears the child ran away,
No perfect parents, despite hearts of gold
Sometimes we’re naught but clay.
The husband’s wife was his whole world,
His hope, his passion, his fire,
But overtime blunted his mind to the fact
That their anniversary had transpired.
His angel faced him, her beauty marred
By an angry mask of spousal rage,
He’d put on her fingers endless gold,
But that night he was naught but clay.
The politician rode high on the hog,
When he crushed a tough election.
People cried that it changed everything,
We were off in a new direction.
But as always gravity settled on in,
And legislatures are hard to sway,
Some days his words turned all to gold,
But on others they were naught but clay.
The perfect game the pitcher threw,
Was a masterpiece that all would know.
No matter who stepped to the plate,
They were a step behind his throw.
But the very next game he gave up runs,
Eight runs two innings into the game,
Last weeks his pitches had been solid gold,
This week they were naught but clay.
For two years the clerk nailed the data,
Breaking standards with practiced ease,
He’d earned a promotion and more cash,
It was one of his proudest feats.
But then he lost two clients quick,
And soon had no source of pay,
Sometimes we shine with the sheen of gold,
Other times we’re naught but clay.
…But even clay is made beautiful,
in the hands of a Master.
In the mystery of night, when stars sing a forgotten hymn,
I travel through the shadows of silence, seeking an abstract truth within.
Through labyrinths of thoughts, an underground river carries me,
With each ripple, closer to the star that ceased to be.
In the whispers of the wind, I hear the call of ancient deities,
Pouring into my soul desires and dreams of yesterdays’ pleas.
Here, where time is but an ephemeral shade,
I seek my essence beyond the waxen veil's cascade.
I am a rootless tree, adrift on the endless sea,
I wear my solitude like a cloak of twilight's decree.
In the silent universe, I search for a thread of light,
A connection with all that is and all that might.
Rituals of silence bind my words to the sky,
In the cosmic dance of stars, I find a truth austere and high.
I repeat ancient incantations, words of forgotten lore,
On the wings of dreams, I lose myself in a time unknown before.
I am but a seeker in a world of questions and replies,
A traveler through life's chaos, with a soul heavy with disguise.
In every verse, a portion of the philosophy of silence sings,
For in profound silence, I find the key to understanding things.
And perhaps in this quest, solitude is but an illusion's guise,
An echo of the desire to find meaning amidst confusion's ties.
With each step, I draw nearer to the edge of infinity's reign,
Where heaven and earth meet under destiny's domain.
Through words, I rise in the eternal dance of stars,
And in cosmic melancholy, I find the peace of spheres afar,
For in the sea of silence, I rediscover me,
A seeking soul in a boundless universe, without identity.
He was dealt a harsh life
But he tuned it into something beautiful
He’s electric, like the body of his lonely guitar
He holds a soft heart, yet remains inscrutable
He’s swayed by music, his swift fingers hitting each note
He frets, then he avoids, scanning for escape
He holds onto his pain, like the neck of his lonely guitar
Taking space when vulnerability takes shape
He won’t feel safe if you get too close
His magnetic shield attracts only sound
Strumming vibrations, like the pick-up of his lonely guitar
His gift to us is his music, so profound
He’ll dismiss you, then feel remorse when you’re gone
A self-fulfilling prophecy from personalized neglect
Pushing and pulling, like the whammy on his lonely guitar
His tension alters the pitch in his need to protect
He doesn’t want to lose you, but he won’t choose you
He gauges his emotional regulation through every tune
As he plucks at your heart, like the strings of his lonely guitar
In his authentic tone that causes my soul to swoon
He keeps himself busy to evade any reflection
He’s only secure on the stage hearing fan’s cheers
He’s divided his pitch, like the fret of his lonely guitar
He’ll scale you back while he’s hiding his fears
His riff is survival while suppressing his demons
Yet he maintains perfect control set by the saddle
Where he’s safely anchored, like the bridge of his lonely guitar
His wall of silence is more deafening in his battle
Change looks quite strange
As time moves on,
Watch your grand range
Here and beyond.
Watch how time hurls
A curious touch,
Sacred space curls
As joy binds much.
Seek your path here
In ways profound,
Love channels cheer
As truth now grounds.
Learn what you know
In tints and shades,
Live with wise glow
Vis touch and trade.
Words come to mind
In verse that gels,
Taste shows in kind
What finesse spells.
Heed thus the proof
That helps you live,
Speak the plain truth
With love you give.
Go beyond fear
As faith gives sight,
Prize happy cheer
That shines a light.
Craft your fond dream
With your mind map,
Draft your grand streams
Now step by step.
Time waits to tell
How success comes,
Space helps you dwell
On love that sums.
Leon Enriquez
25 August 2018
Singapore
Music and romance are camarilla comrades,
just like poems are my shield and arrows.
But not all lullabies of lovers,
harmonise like a street choir of angels.
If love resembles the weather,
then poetry is like a snowflake.
Its fragile abstract nature
can betray the innocence of a poetic heart -
serenading in slaughtered symphonies of silence.
When lust burns in assailable impurity,
love suffers in small doses,
performing a masquerade concealing truthful tones.
So what is the purpose of poetry if it offers no remedy?
Whispering winds form hailstorms in my mind,
wondering if there is a sanctuary
for lonely spirits suffering as seasonally sad souls.
In the midst of melancholic misfortune,
I wish to drown in tepid tides of holy water,
because fate is frozen in winter wanderlust.
Heartache taught me how to be a poet,
each scar inflicted from profound lies and cries.
But what is the purpose of poetry if there is no muse?
In the perception of imagination,
I search for the one
who left frozen tears on my pillowcase.
But her eyes see celestite waves kissing
ecru shorelines under blue pearlescent skies,
blessed with the radiance of saffron sunshine,
in the heavenly harmony of relaxing music.
So, I wonder why she resides in ebony emotions,
refusing to dance, lost in lyrical lament.
Some spirits evolve into envious entities,
but mine just misses the rose window to her soul.
When wine dark skies glare in misery and gloom,
composing ashen clouds to pour in plentiful rain,
I feel the chills of an Antarctic iced leaf on an ice covered lake,
but maintain an evergreen glow,
hoping to forever illuminate like cathartic moonlight -
reflecting upon her bronze fibers.
Opposites attract like fireflies in the night.
I am the bridge and you are the chorus.
so I follow footprints in the snow,
under the guidance of devotary sincere stars.
In the hope we will make melodies at midnight -
merging into rivers of unassailable purity
And If I can't be a poet, then I'll become a poem.
I cannot predict how my ink will spill,
so will you guide each verse to give it a purpose,
breathing my words into life?
Will you love me more than poetry?
Kissing all those diamond promises
into my rhinestone heart -
or will you massacre the music,
abandoning me like an unfinished symphony.
Glimpse a pure sight of profound peace,
Reach beyond show a poignant feel;
Ask for warm light to bind true ease,
Choice moves true flow as grace now heals;
Etch a fine play in colours grand.
Heart and mind sync as soul fronts joy,
Earn that wise way in wholesome trends;
Reap precious think in bounty's ploy,
End and start swing from movement here;
Apt that fond space in timeless tints,
Face to face bring what truth endears;
Touch and taste trace a telling mint,
Edge of quest stakes a vibrant twist,
Rest in bright make love's lasting gist.
Leon Enriquez
24 April 2018
Singapore
Disparage not our hearts-- they are God-loved, God-found
This will get mystical -- allow me to propound
Just think-- wherever we pray can be holy ground
Contemplation of His Love always will astound
The Divine Physician can heal us -- He's renowned
Reach for the "hem of Christ's garment" (Mercy profound)
Pull the "thread," don't let go, till there's enough unwound
If too sad to sing His praise, let this poem surround
"Caress the broken heart with threads of muted sound"
Keep it snug and protect it, weave the threads around
For times of desolation, when despairs abound
And the upbeat, carefree feelings seem to have downed
But Mary, Star of the Sea won't let Hope be drowned
This Holy Queen's eyes of mercy see when we're aground
Her Garment of Grace makes us royal kids (uncrowned)
The choice of scapular is not meant to confound
It matters not as much which color she has gowned
Nor is it restricted to groups in a compound
Anyone can ask for her Virtues to redound
As her graces crowd out our sins, vices impound
Belonging to her heart, her Mercy Songs resound
Our Father, Hail Mary... our silent prayers unbound
We must persist when consolation is unfound
Read the quotes below, if you wish me to expound...
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Mark 5:28 "If I can just touch the hem of his garment, I will be healed.”
Romans 5:3-4: "...suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope..."
"Suffering for love nourishes love.
Let us not always wish to feel the sweetness of devotion to the Immaculata... It is not always time for sweet caresses, be they ever so holy. We also need the trials of dryness, abandonment, and the like. Let her fit the means of sanctification according to her will..."
(pg. 105, #4-5, in Aim Higher!: Spiritual and Marian Reflections of St. Maximilian Kolbe).
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August 9, 2023
Choose A Line II Poetry Contest (#2)
Contest Sponsored by--- Joseph May
Lines of stern stuff strike troubling pain,
Intent works well in harsh reveal;
Glimpse sure enough such sapping strains,
Hidden thoughts tell how conflict feels;
Taste thus dark times where problems toast.
Give your heart room to live brave tact,
Rouse up bold rhymes to face the roast;
Allow deep gloom to spur great act,
Note how you feel when pain attacks.
Dream and move dance to sync with grace,
Live above will and dare meet slack;
Opt to steer chance as soul sculpts face,
Voice knows clear poise with touch profound,
Embrace pure choice as success grounds.
Leon Enriquez
15 February 2017
Singapore