Long Reclines Poems
Long Reclines Poems. Below are the most popular long Reclines by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reclines poems by poem length and keyword.
"The MacGuffin"
Once through,
cast dreams
across a rippling mind
Circles ever-widening,
no shallow tidal pools
in this design
Through seconds,
days, months of years
dedicating
Are you the one
seeking
ever true
perhaps
this be
your awakening
silent and
evolutionary
Before your eyes,
the windows
of your soul,
what vision now presents
to be foretold?
When nature
washed her hands of milk,
she read Ralegh,
who spoke of
snow and silk
Mirrors
are light
refracting
in the Shadow Land,
a slow dance
moves quick minds
to burn entwined,
electric silver
strings that sing
and bend
Light sparks heat,
charge and change
waves propogation,
pulls magnetic
ever closer
concentric,
now you are cerebral taken
Deep her caverns
swim you there,
through lightening
tightened bolts
of devil’s spear
There you touch
her surface shell,
prize it open,
what treasure maps
await, do tell?
For there she waits
like some
modesty-is-a-virtue
singing siren,
set in singular emotion
Safe and warm She,
feline fish reclines,
yet famished
in her mind’s fathomless
deep dark mysterious
and silent Ocean,
beware
a stormy climb
When nature
washed her hands of milk -
The Dilettante waits,
she reads Ralegh,
who speaks to her
of melting snow and
wet silk
(Lovejoy-Burton, August 2018)
"Month Through/ Xavie Rinato"
https://youtu.be/ZJ65vWmHDRU
"Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:"
1. Sir Walter Ralegh
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sir-walter-ralegh
2. Artist, Video - XavieRinato
I enter in a large white room
high is the ceiling
straight are the walls
round are the corners
door lies across on the other side
in the center I see
a large black hat
square in shape
drooping it is
upon the head
of very thin man
a guitar in a case
lies across to his back
a long wooden bow
across to his front
a single long black arrow
with long black ribbon fetching
he reclines upon skeletal chopped bike
black is its color without any chrome
resting on its side stand
tilts to the left
seeing him I circle the room
going counterclockwise about
following the wall around
the door on the other side
passing him as he
straightens up and starts his bike
begins to go backwards
clockwise around the room
as I entered the doorway
into a hall that spirals down
his black arrow passes under right ear
continuing on and strikes wall
turning counterclockwise
I spiral on down
close to the wall
continuing on down
he follows me down
turning clockwise coming on
and with every turn
the long black arrow
passes under my right ear
ribbon fletching fluttering behind
Spiraling down we go
turn after turn continuing
I going forward
as he follows me down
and with every turn
the arrow comes again
as I downward go
my counter clockwise turns
stop on a landing
cannot go on
he following to me after
in his clockwise turns
continuing backwards
his arrow still flies
continues on down
no landing for him
upon the landing I sit
watching him continue by
going continuing down
hearing a voice say
I must turn and go the other way
if not to continue down
if I would go up
Each day before dawn gazing up at the stars I truly hope to see
if somewhere in the Universe a morning gift was left for me
to restore my equilibrium from a restless painful night
then as I look to my delight I spy my morning feast
for the Cosmos sent its brightest star; she twinkles up above
her name is Venus and just for me she wears her sparkling gown
I adore her dazzling beauty as she takes away my breath
The Sun is waiting in the wings to bring light to our day
and like a trumpet serenade the skies will celebrate her rising
in the east the sky prepares her morning overtures with
a kaleidoscope of colours to infuse the daybreak sky
hues of crimson, orange, vermilion are painted from an artiste’s palette
as dramatically she makes her entrance; a shimmering golden orb
Then finally at the end of her day she creates an impressive finale
a cornucopia of her most vivid colours lights up the evening sky
as wispy dancing clouds float by to soak up her vibrant hues
then slowly she reclines to bed to view the biggest show of all
This show is always different on each twenty eight day run
a celebratory performance from iconic Mother Moon
such a captivating sight to see
this shimmering silver spherical globe
she truly is my favorite and of her I am in awe
I gaze at her for hours for she truly stole my heart
she lifts my spirit
she calms my soul
she enlightens my life
she is something bigger than myself
Written 29th January 2019
Contest: Something Bigger Than Myself
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
3rd place in this Premier Contest
HONORABLE MENTION
Contest YOUR CHOICE 7 any form, any theme
Sponsor Brian Strand
Gloom pervades, an empty stillness hovers,
No sound, except the echo of faint sighs,
Rising from a frail chest.
Popped upon white pillows, a small girl reclines
On her sick bed, incapable of sitting up.
Her body down the waist, is wrapped
In a thick blanket to douse the chills of fever.
Consumption has eaten away her vitality
Her sick lungs gasps for breath
Her face, a white paper- pale and bland
Her golden hair lies disheveled.
A curtain hangs dull, half drawn
Waiting for the final pull.
The lady, her aunt who has been with the child
Through her tortuous journey,
Bends down clasping her frail hand
Unable to face the girl’s blank stare.
A yellowing leaf is about to take its downward spiral.
An unseen guest waits for the final embrace.
The faint stirring of life will soon desert her.
Yet love remains, a whiff of cool breeze,
Fanning her fears away with a gentle clasp.
In a critical moment of suffering and helplessness,
No medicine, but love alone serves as balm.
Each blurred stroke unravels the silence,
Of art that speaks for itself~
Man’s vulnerability and hovering sorrow,
Of a life so enigmatic, cast in gloom’s shroud.
The land lies
Chilled and stilled.
Whether flatlands
Or rolling hills.
Damp, cold, and alone;
She doesn't feel at home.
It's hard to feel at home
Where warmth and purpose seem
To be in decline or have departed.
The land knows that she was made to yield;
To yield grain, nuts, fruits, and vegetables.
But when she gives pause and thought,
She realizes that she's right at home.
She surrenders herself to a state of rest,
And when thought upon, she no longer feels
Bored and alone, but very much at home.
She becomes pleased that yesterday's yields
Are being utilized and feasted upon. So, she
Reclines and anticipates the yields of Spring.
She can't wait for the sprouting seeds and blossoming
trees. But until then, the lifeline of the land's present
season will thrive on patience, trust, sleep, and anticipation.
010624PS
The Afternoon Moon
Grandmother reclines in the passenger seat,
while sunlight glows through her white wavy hair.
Her cheeks rosy, she smiles at me
as I drive east toward the Blossom Trail.
I beam back, then remember
my mask hides my mouth.
We pass some almond orchards,
the flowers like drops of warm vanilla cream
under the clear blue sky.
Grandmother remarks how some trees
already dropped their petals,
though it’s not even March.
A white half moon climbs the sky,
like it wants to get a jump start on night,
even if it’s only two o’clock.
It tries to rush away my Sunday,
my present moment, my time with Grandmother
into a whole week without her.
Will it hasten the day
she’ll move into assisted living,
where I won’t be allowed to see her?
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2021 Issue
The Lion and the Gypsy
For some, life is simple in raw assertiveness,
With no disarmament of conscience and alertness.
Beneath a moonlit sky, a heartbeat from closed eyes,
The wild beast presides with power over life.
Sleep, child. Water to drink and music to compose;
Let the restraining odour fill the lion’s nostrils
Whose appetite is satiated and mind, perplexed,
Questions itself: “Is it living or is it dead?”
The gypsy, tranquil, reclines on the sands of time,
While the big cat is stymied by its unresolved find.
His, the will to survive with the instinct to kill and eat;
Hers, the want of love to create and the desire for peace.
Where now destined the lion and gypsy shift,
The outcome determined and the conclusion swift.
***
Note:
“The Lion and the Gypsy” is an ekphrastic poem perspective of the 1897 painting "The Sleeping Gypsy" by Henri Rousseau (1844–1910).
As the morning breeze flows softly
rippling on the placid lake,
on the lotus leaf floating lonely
reclines a dainty drop of water,
sparkling in the rays of the rising sun,
rolls as an opalescent pristine pearl,
the leaf embraces with love lest it falls,
but doesn’t cling to its possession.
As the lake water simmers
in the cauldron of the scorching day,
the lotus leaf singed by the heat
crumples to meet the end.
The water drop dries up as destined,
released by the unattached leaf
disappears in the free air to the infinity,
for it’s a belonging never possessed.
On the wilting leaf of my forlorn life,
floating on the torrid tide of time,
my soul turns to a drop of elixir I embrace.
As it glows detached in the divine light,
enwrapped in the patina of peace,
it lies in the fold of sublime tranquility,
waiting to be released unpossessed,
and merge with the absolute in eternity.
May 9, 2021
Brian Strand's Contest A Strand (1047)
A cross between a Great Dane and a German shepherd of course.
Dumped on us a few months ago; Buddy is the size of a small horse.
He has big ears and exotically interesting markings of black and white.
Year and a half old, he chews up everything in and out of his sight.
He has chewed up a mattress of memory foam, and six of my shoes.
Mates of each he has never felt compelled to taste; so I always lose.
He has eaten the leather off some couches, and an antique chair.
He often comes flying at me at ninety degrees – traveling in the air.
Lands on my lap; his big butt hits the button and the chair reclines.
Stuck in a laying position until my husband finally hears my whines.
Buddy has eaten every poison mouse trap in the garage and hall.
Loves chasing rabbits, squirrels, the cat and a yellow tennis ball.
Easier if Sophie, our twelve-year-old cocker spaniel was gone.
She is angry as a heck that this giant is on the loose, no swan.
Dainty in no way, he is a giant puppy who wants to frolic and play.
And Shark the cat, has been missing since Buddy showed up one day.
when the sky breathes poetry
through sepia-streaked silence,
and the earth reclines, listening
to the music of weeping wisterias~
blowing in the pulse of bleeding paradise,
I swallow sizzling stars
within cloaked scars,
comfortably blanketed
in self-woven wounds.
while you, the prisoner of my past,
keep revisiting empty journals,
lacking crystalline colors of comfort.
as crimson are the lines
across pages of pain,
and rhymes left unwritten~
stretching through margins of misery,
like flowers blooming amidst rain,
like fireflies flickering neon dreams,
oblivious to the darkness
that tastes like delicate storms,
gusting with glistening grief,
undressing dusks shivering
in blazing frost…
O tulip trinkets,
echoing ballads of brokenness~
I ache to surf through crooning chaos
in serene seclusion,
away from the fickle wind and
unseen waves, tortured by
twisted tunes of twilight.
I’ve long been the voice of love,
unsaid, intoxicated on life’s
whimsical woes~
a ghost of a wilted rose,
robed in restless redolence,
befriending demons within,
as shadows too
abandoned the healing
chambers of angst,
reluctant to sway
to chamomile chimes
of euphoric gardens
where roots of ruins
are watered with tanzanite tears…
perhaps the moon
was never mine to keep.
and in this distant affair,
I sing sparks of sorrow
to the soul of salt-kissed sapphires,
wishing the world could comprehend~
how peace is neither a lily nor a bird,
but a weathered tree
stuck in the forsaken
sands of felicity,
an eloquent ambience
where I thrive
in bittersweet solitude…
remember me ~
when clouds veil saffron
of the sanguine sun
and the zephyr forgets my name,
I remain the mistress, dressed in
distressed diamonds,
not a seeker of superficial lies
glazed in greed and gold,
I trace trembling chakras of torrents
with ink and sighs,
exhaling lunar-dust,
like a maestro of yearning,
perfectly flawed and unrefined,
still healing ~
tied to the faded lips
of an
enlightened constellation…