Long Red Poems
Long Red Poems. Below are the most popular long Red by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Red poems by poem length and keyword.
She used second-hand water.
Water which had first been used to scrub vegetables, or rinse the dishes.
And poured it over her red geraniums with loving hands
Waste not, want not....that was her motto.
In offering such hand-me-downs to her flowers, ....they cared not. ....
For her own apron was a hand-me-down...made from a worn out shirt. ...
In her small way it simply told
how she had learned to cherish what matters most.
That even the smallest things, have value.
Her flowers seemed to know her gentle way, her tender touch...
You half expected that when she turned away,
the flowers would leave their place to follow her,
the way the kittens followed from the barn when she came up from milking the cows.
There may be other languages of love,
But those stubborn red geraniums would not die...
they simply bloomed brighter and brighter,
as if they understood whose tender hands were there for them.
Written for my Grandma....who loved her garden...
The sky watched over the world in silence,
a guardian stretched from edge to edge,
holding the weight of every heartbeat,
every whispered prayer that never left the lips.
It saw the laughter that never lasted,
the wars that stained the soil below,
the children reaching up for stars
they’d never be tall enough to touch.
And when it could no longer bear
the ache of what it witnessed
it broke.
Not in thunder or rage,
but in quiet surrender.
Its tears fell like confession,
soft and endless,
washing the dust from forgotten graves,
tracing silver lines down glass and leaf alike.
Each drop carried a story:
of a promise left unkept,
a name whispered to no one,
a mother waiting by the window.
The earth didn’t flinch.
It simply opened its arms,
letting the sorrow sink deep,
turning grief into green again.
And somewhere, in that trembling stillness,
the sky exhaled.
It had cried enough to remember
and the world, for a moment,
looked a little more forgiven.
The other day, I was sitting at a traffic light, waiting for it to change from red to green.
Suddenly, a gentle breeze entered through my sunroof, and with it came a ladybug with its burnished coat as it took rest upon my arm.
It was quiet and majestic, just like the breeze that carried it.
As I immersed myself in its quiet beauty, all the heaviness that had weighed on my heart, mind, and spirit in the prior weeks and days started to fade.
Then, suddenly, the light changed to green as another breeze swooped in and gently lifted the ladybug away from my arm and back through the sunroof it went.
In this peaceful moment, as I watched its graceful ascent, a coy smile gently rested on my face, and my heart felt light as a feather, floating.
Whispering leaves, summer breeze,
A time to postpone all destinies.
In crimson gown, she's on the town,
'Til the dark eyes go slowly down.
Leaving memories of the golden hours,
Laughing children in leafy bowers;
The sunny noon, with the robin's tune,
And the feverish blossoms aswoon!
But, a time comes for the surrender,
When there's nothing more to render;
And where the bluebirds I have known?
It's fate sometimes to stand alone.
In the languid, violet, creeping chill,
Night embraced before, embraces still.
Palest moon, when the stars are out,
Peace is what these moments are about!
As the ghost of day goes his weary way,
To return again through another doorway.
But, for now, he just bids his goodbye,
To the glowing, lovely ruby of the sky!
A red hibiscus bloomed
In the backyard yesterday
Reminding me of my mother
And things she used to say.
Like, “Oh, look at that butterfly
And the color of its wings,” and
“Don’t you just love this time of year,
It’s so uplifting in the Spring!”
She would doddle ‘round like a queen without a crown
Admiring all the plants and people living,
Seeing deeper than eyes can see
Rarely taking but always giving.
She loved plants and seeds of every kind
From azaleas to zinnia flowers,
And talked to them like family and friends
Any day or nighttime hour.
Daisies, tulips or marigolds
Roses, or chrysanthemums,
She loved them all, Spring, Summer or Fall
In shade or the open sun.
And there were times I was embarrassed
By her childlike, effervescent ways,
But in retrospect, I’d give anything
To have just one more day.
Of hearing her voice speak softly
Like she did when time stood still,
“I love the red hibiscus, son, and you,
I always will.
© Terrell Martin, 12/14/2024
Beauty is your name red apple just for me Your fruity and lovely taste lasts in my mouth It's my duty to enjoy and chew you well My best friend Judy and I will share you Your skin of red ruby is pretty for all to see
Date Written: 11/3/2021
3 Place
Something Beautiful 5 line rhyme
Contest Judged: 11/11/2021 Sponsored by: charles messina
I am a red maple tree in a forest,
have been growing for over a hundred years now.
There is a lovely view that I share with many birds and trees,
when the nests are full of babies I am so happy listening to the peeps.
At the beginning of fall my green leaves begin to turn from green to red,
soon, my gown is fiery red and I am so proud as I sway and flutter,
but, as the breezes blow my leaves begin to fly.
I let my children of red go floating, drifting, gliding,
until my ancient branches are bare and gnarled in the fall sun,
and then . . . I sleep beneath a winter blanket of white.
She wore a dress in the color sin
and walked with thunder's grace,
a shadow lit from deep within,
with fire upon her face.
She left the party close to one,
her heels in hand, alone,
they say she whispered to the moon—
“Tonight, I’m heading home.”
But morning came, and she did not.
The chapel bells were grim.
A crimson streak, a silver spot,
the trail grew cold and dim.
They found a heel beside the drain,
an earring near the stairs,
a smear of blood the size of rain,
and whispers in the prayers.
The papers roared: “A girl in red!
A poet may be linked!”
His verses read like hearts gone dead,
his alibis all blinked.
He wrote of girls who vanished fast,
of lips and death and sky,
and Rosalie was not the last
to haunt his lullaby.
Detective Maren took the lead,
a woman sharp and slow.
She followed every crimson thread
the town was scared to know.
She found the Poet’s secret book,
with names in ink and dread,
and there—the line he never took:
"…and then she bled and bled.”
He never made it to the court,
he jumped before the trial.
They found his boots, a final thought—
a carving on the tile:
"Remember me, I told the tale
the world refused to see.
But stories shift like autumn gales—
the killer isn’t me."
Six months from then, a letter came,
no name, no scent, no fold.
Just blood-red ink and ghostly claim,
a secret left untold:
“You followed every thread I wove,
each clue I laid with care.
But who first whispered from above?
And why was I found there?"
Maren sat still, her coffee cold,
her hands began to shake.
The story cracked. The pieces told
a truth she did not fake—
The heel? She found it in the drain.
The earring? She alone.
Each breadcrumb laid with quiet pain
by hands as cold as stone.
For Maren was the girl in red,
reborn with borrowed face.
She’d killed her past and called it dead—
then stalked it like a case.
The Poet wasn’t pure nor clean,
but guilt was not the thread.
She needed someone to be seen,
so she became the dead.
The missing girls? Her mirrored pasts,
the selves she left behind.
And Maren walked the line she cast,
rewriting in her mind.
So if you pass Saint Cecilia’s hand
when fog begins to climb,
don’t trust the badge, don’t trust the land—
some ghosts commit no crime.
Romance in Nature is filled with dancing and singing, and a little color.
~ Poet
A sprightly creature shares my home.
Little beige gecko, oft times green,
regards my porch as if his own.
Many hours he may be seen
from railing to roof, and in between.
My porch, his favored retreat,
filled with ferns and jasmine yellow,
provides his shelter, idyllic and neat.
He loses his temperament mellow
when time to challenge another fellow.
At mating time, he struts proudly.
Neck swollen, throbbing ruby from red,
he swaggers and performs loudly.
Prancing around without dread,
he becomes the male he sees in his head.
She used second-hand water
Water that had first been used to scrub vegetables
or rinse the dishes
And poured it over her red geraniums with loving hands
Waste not, want not...was her motto
In offering such hand-me-downs to her flowers
They cared not
For her own apron was a hand-me-down
Made from a worn-out shirt,...
and simply told
that she had learned to cherish what life gives:
even the smallest things, had value....
Her flowers seemed to know her gentle way, her tender touch...
You half expected that when she turned away
the flowers would leave their place to follow her,
the way the kittens followed from the barn
when she came up from milking the cows
There may be other languages of love
But these stubborn red geraniums would not die....they simply bloomed brighter