Long Redolent Poems
Long Redolent Poems. Below are the most popular long Redolent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Redolent poems by poem length and keyword.
Image of Brassavola Orchid-B provided by Esty
Sunflowers
Stable hearts surrender to serendipitous sparkle specks of a night sky
Usurped shone countenance of pleasant harmony midst rare moments
Nocturnal moths whimsically flutter wings to stimulate dreamers rising
Fragrance persuades noses of redolent sweet options like a pendulum
Labor of timely instants for a day's warmth to diffuse the lathering oils
Orchids at night relief odors that they are perfect to air, motions lovers
Wished upon stars studded on a darken frame redolence pairs gesture
Evocative aroma inches glistened lake as a moonglade o'er love ashore
Rescues from zephyrs will, be enwrapped in materials or cuddled arms
Satiate heart's content of a Night Orchid's pleasant servitude to amour
2021 May 26
*1st Place*
Sunflower
~~Malabika Ray Choudhury: Judged 2021 May 31
To a quiet demesne
A holiday they'd planned
Informing only that it was bucolic
A little slice of wonderland
The locals informed from the harbinger
Knew of the impending arrival
Some folk knowing the family erstwhile
Others quietly still in denial
The expected stay ephemeral
At the local store to be met
The bakery purely redolent passing by
More pressing was the time already spent
The host in a state of dalliance
Although within propinquity of the store
Welcomed with a firm handshake
Muttering about an expected downpour
Arrival at the manor and raindrops began to form
Hydrating the colorful efflorescence blooms
It was then he had an epiphany
Wondering what these country folk assume
Surprising them he commented on the petrichor
Assuming he was a city bloke with no country vibe
It was only through sheer serenpidity
He'd read about it on his holiday ride
And tuning of fiddle,your voice vibrate along the strings
The strums of lute echoes far beyond and rhymes
The songs of a praise flows and clings
With an autumnal bare bough of winters rimes
My poor heart creeps and you please let it sway
In truth the poets heart is small like leveret
I plucked you a flower from the redolent
bouquet
And heaven knows a flower or your face of claret
Here comes my lovely nymph inch by inch nearer
O'god heaven is mine eye seeing a lissome sylph
Ruffled and tattered and struck the mine answerer
Was she the mayan people a words in their glyph?
And what so more to expect for mine brow to hold ?
The dewes of eyes or the snow of cold
Written: May 25 for a contest sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
3rd place contest winner
*******************
Line of inquiry:
"This form of dust is by God energised
wherein we are living light housed within
How may this truth be realised
show us, oh monk, how to begin."
*******************
I — Valediction of Authority
This dust is not moribund,
but rumbustious with breath—
skyfoam rising, fogscape shifting,
each speck a spark of sprightliness.
Why wilt your whiter
at a monk’s behest,
Or wade within,
the weight of worship?
Buddha was flesh,
a wanderer of earth,
his catharsis his own,
not a crown for sequacious mouths.
To worship him is a mondegreen,
a nugatory palaver,
a meretricious catchphrase
for those who prowl
in officious dogma.
No viceroy of sanctity,
no ersatz jewel of salvation—
only a human,
finite, quondam,
like you, like me.
Bridge — From Authority to Soul
Yet the skyfoam does not pause—
waves continue unabated,
clouds drift in chiaroscuro,
reminding us: truth is not bestowed,
but discovered within.
II — Realization of the Soul
See the cowslips bending in the swale,
petioles redolent with carotene,
ants dogged in their labor,
wisteria climbing with gregarious grace.
All proclaim: sanctity is not decreed,
It is ubiquitous,
woven into the weave of being.
Oneness is not a god’s decree,
but the soul’s halcyon colloquy,
Atman is identical to Brahman—
a selcouth catharsis,
A veridical ataraxia.
So let us not abase ourselves in acrimony,
nor coddle nugatory hubris,
nor prowl in truculent objurgation.
Instead, let us woolgather in halcyon swales,
pernoctate with skyfoam and cloudscape,
until burden evanesces,
and the soul, amaranthine,
limpid, radiant,
is realized as Brahman.
I didn’t know what I would feel about Doug Gay,
But I looked for a motorbike outside the church,
To reinforce his black biker jacket and sociology,
Which superseded church goers and that bunch.
I made it one of the first things I did in Glasgow,
To spy on the sanity crutches of its gem leaders,
Of the contemporary church the ancient throw,
To understand my place in society, had readers’.
I actually managed to have a short conversation,
With him, where I did inquire about monasteries,
And he told me that there was an abby, fixation,
Which he attended often for all his quandaries.
I felt that Doug Gay thought that this discourse,
Was important for what direction I took for sense,
And I knew he wished to replace choice, of course,
For serendipity, onto which god could map, hence.
It was an ephemeral chat, but I kept the dalliance,
And I felt efflorescence from my litre against religion,
Because I’d confirmed that Doug’s bold defiance,
Of the traditional church was fuelled by abbey liaison.
He related the bucolic abbey to Christian theology,
Saying that the Glasgow Christian scene was demesne,
And was a harbinger to the students was cosmology,
By relegating the church’s Jesus to erstwhile, totally.
He said that his god or Jesus had petrichor sweet,
Unlike the nauseating odour of the church stated,
Giving him propinquity to redolent credence neat,
Because he was historical, within the abbey gated.
I appreciated the Late, Late Service somewhat, bits,
His modern worship service of dance, so rebellious,
And now the Rev Doug Gay diligently and surely sits,
As a Glasgow University lecturer in studies religious.
It’s the little things,
that remind me of my aunt,
and how in some unusual way,
she may still be alive,
if only in the memory,
a passing morning train,
tea bags splaying suddenly,
from unopened cupboards,
I’d actually forgotten somehow,
her favourite cup and saucer,
with cracks down the side,
pictures strewn in drawers,
redolent of precious moments,
framed photos in hallways,
that move without a reason,
car keys with fobs,
that gather sand dune blobs,
onion dome shaped artefacts,
for a chosen tartan table top,
that cast away diary,
which kept the gleam,
in those expressive eyes of hers
I gaze out my glass doors,
engrossed in
the clamorous cadence
of screeching stillness,
emitting electric tones
of love etched in stones,
and fervent flares of fireflies,
stolen from the riverbed of memories,
where songs we played on repeat~
to the moon and stars
weeping in darkness~
reverberate like redolent refrains…
And in this s i l e n c e,
I question every word unwritten,
as the essence of unspoken phases
mean everything
to the abandoned shadows,
searching for a purpose
amidst ephemeral threads~
of weariness we wear,
when white noise engulfs
serene, salty caves,
where nothing stays constant
but the garnet gravels,
glazed with smothered fears,
singing scars,
mirroring stained pearls,
resting in the heart
of cacophonous currents.
I’ve long known that
the pain
I breathe
is not heavier than the burden
you bear like a warrior,
armored with scales of strength.
Remember when gusts of grief
blurred the sparks flying
across your horizon?
I chose to walk
beneath the shivering skyline,
for I’ve tasted ivory tears
of the crescent,
felt the citrine warmth
drifting through dusky flickers,
as in your arms, every tornado
unfurls twinkling tenors of
turquoise tomorrows,
calming twisted tides,
ferrying lagoon lies, with lucid lullabies.
I’m still tied to the s i l k and l a c e
of the soaring lunar rays,
entwined in an emerald dream
carved with ethereal mists...
A saga,
eternally engraved
in the fated cusp of emptiness,
waiting for the rebirth of
entombed longings,
true love lingers like
a ghost of an ebony rose
in the graveyard
of buried promises...
brushed by the blushing Fontainebleau,
blooming with rainless foliage,
like a poem kissed by the green…
I sigh as thoughts wander
in saffron silence,
in the echoing warmth
of your breathing silhouette...
we are beyond wraiths of wildflowers,
waltzing through the wilderness,
sipping honeyed drops of sunlight,
whilst specks of citrine
soar above olives~
merging in mystical mists of magnetic gold,
oblivious to the spectral leaves
thriving within inner forests,
veiling the vindictive vines
painted with ice-corpse colors of life.
O time, cloaked in cryptic clouds~
in a world that cares not for the forgotten,
let the fields of fervent petals
dress the untouched trees
with butterfly-blue blurs,
as peace is more than a mere noun,
nestled between framed figs…
and to heal is to heed the harmonized~
hymns mirroring soft springs of Eden,
where l o v e is an aesthetic array
ribboned with amorous emeralds~
scattered across meadows
lost in redolent reveries.
I speak to the breeze,
cradling the balmy boulevard
in hushed tones~
to unfreeze the wintry thistles,
to untangle complex chords of woes
piercing the pained canvas
aching within my mind..
for in the layered heart
of external pleasures,
there I’ve found the palette~
that homes not regrets and troubles
but elevates the m a g i c
of sketched solace…
the verdant of swirling hope
fine-tuned strokes of sage~
sun-soaked distraction,
a memory of soulmates
tied
to the timeless roots
infused with trust ...
Shards of shimmering and redolent recollection, of images memories and distant life actions. Long since transpired, and now nothing holds my hand, yet thoughts still swarm my mind and sway my intentions today! overlaid reflections of former events flicker, as my desires and perceived values now play their scenes to a heatless aurora of irrelevance's, halogenic in flames and spouts of unresponsiveness, unyielding mediocrity now is coupled with both the current and contemporary, we are so bereft of creativity in the veins of social life, while in the public arteries flows the stuff of nightmare and mass animosity...
Copyright Joe Maverick 2011
Tim Roth gets shot, and what emerges? Blood.
His innards act like wrecked intestines should.
Those fifties-movies injuns really suck,
with tactics redolent of Donald Duck!
“The whiteys circle wagons, as we feared:
so let’s just ride around them – get mown down!”
You’d see more bloodshed watching Charlie Brown.
And why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
Tim Robbins plans a prison break. Oh well,
they’ll catch him quickly when they search his cell.
It’s never searched, or posters changed, in fact.
And why was Thomas Hagan never whacked?
And Cage’s “Wicker Man” was just plain weird,
and not remotely scary. I’m at ease
with oddball cops with masks on: “Not the bees!”
But why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
“Commando” – Arnie’s shooting-up a storm:
a hundred dead a minute is the norm.
The baddies take ten thousand shots at him,
to no avail. They’re not from Arnie’s gym!
You want to know why Rin Tin Tin’s revered?
The dog’s so smart, he counts: he knows when you’ve
exhausted all six slugs – then makes his move.
Yet why does Tarzan never grow a beard?