Long Repainted Poems
Long Repainted Poems. Below are the most popular long Repainted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Repainted poems by poem length and keyword.
As I Read through the books
I can find the words that decode
I become a poet
Not by circuit but by pursuit
As I am fostering the new generation
I always wanted to be famous
I reclaim that the theories
Put forward are worries
I don't know whether I am scholar
I don't know how how to use my knowledge
As I dream of the Hollywood boulevard
I can see the stars who
Repainted in the cartoon
The bey blade rotates through the axis
As the earth which protea Round the earth
My frustration is my inspiration
My gestures are my sorrows
As I walk through the mountain of ideas
I don't know where to put my ideas
As I can repeat the words in my mind
I always begin with the rattle
Let it not the rattle of a reptile
As I leap infto the generation
As my sketch is made by poverty
As I reclaim the the knowledge
I can always see Shakespeare in the atmosphere
The spheres contains the green house effect
The economic system that persist
Define the Conglomeration of the philosophy
Let the judiciary be independent
Where it could find the innocent
The lost lives from a disaster
Defined the empathy of the soul
But one day everyone must go
The nature rebounds it's impact
As a basketball rebounds from the ring
The Genesis defines creation
As I fear we are the end chapter of Bible
The law of conservation of energy
Conserve the society
Not the individual
Let it be the Formation of a new world
As Stephen Hawking's predicted from his limitations
Life is not a limitation
Never ever look upon what they say
I delve into the brains
Where I can assume the psychology
I wish that all emotions would be associated
Through the soul which connects the blood and veins.
The Valentine dress
A shock and surprise full of red and blue
coming from a heart, mine is devoted to
and from a hand I so value as my cute protection.
It is colourful, fitting and above all an exhibition of love.
The pan
A symbol of my dedication to the family’s need;
a loving reminder of all wonderful breakfasts,
its wash, a satisfaction of my duties already rendered.
The flowers
The purity of beauty without visual effect,
sparkle on the soul to answer their good morning call.
Please every evening with their aerosol of happiness spray,
causing every creature to relax and play.
The wall
A wedge to my upright smooth back
when in a tingly mood so homely and tender.
Its cold sensation, under my handy touch
serves as a suitable background to deep thoughts.
Unfortunately
On the wrong side of an argument,
the pan and my head cause an impact.
At the door ready for a nice outing
the admirable dress is now half way a rag,
the innocent flowers, becoming victims
of rage and uncontrollable violence
and a wall once noted for emotional reflection
is repainted with the splash of blood.
Indeed
I’ve absorbed all the heat and pressures- now he’ll burn.
Human right always prevail over the muscles- this he’ll see!
Immeasurable determination has been planted in a wounded lion
and no amount of sacrifice will deter this quest until justice is served.
It started with a blank canvas-
just another mid-spring day;
no sun nor rain, or gentle breeze-
an atmosphere so still and gray.
A day in May- a fresh-mowed lawn;
leaf-laden trees, soft velvet green.
Yet, at my window, looking out
no birds or squirrels on the scene.
Then came that rush! The canvas filled
with fear and horror- in one stroke!
Six trees were downed- the roots exposed;
outdoors, unreal- our hearts then broke.
A strong tornado- with wide brush,
painted a jungle at our home;
blocking our house and driveway too-
we felt so trapped, nowhere to roam.
The twisted limbs and branches lay
like pythons in the throes of war.
And splintered tree trunks stood in shock
as landscaped beauty was no more.
Stretched out, a canvas of distress;
strewn damaged trunks and tangled limbs.
How one tornado- wild and free,
repainted life at nature's whims.
In my grandpa’s field I stand midst rows of grain
whose gray-green blades stir softly in the moaning wind.
A night chill permeates my skin.
I look down at my arms and legs and realize
I’m a little girl again!
How did I get here? Why am I now standing here in the dark of night?
Far ahead of me, I see the old worn farmhouse.
Moon, big and golden, seems to have left the sky.
It’s reappeared at the window of my grandparent’s old house,
where it glows with a mesmerizing light eerily beckoning me.
I stand transfixed, not knowing what to do.
Is this a dream? It has to be!
Grandma sold that house when grandpa died.
I’d seen it one more time remodeled and repainted
and with another owner’s name.
The house I’m seeing now is the old one from my childhood.
Many things from long ago are coming to my mind:
The fields where my sisters and I frolicked in the summers;
the long dirt lane we skipped happily along;
the berry bushes along many pathways we discovered;
the hollyhocks we learned how to make cute dollies from.
It was daylight when I knew the farm back then. Sun was high in the sky.
Now I’m only seeing the eerie glow emanating from grandpa’s house. . .
I awaken to the darkness of a winter morning’s gloom,
vaguely remembering a vanished moon
which turned up on the face of my grandparents’ old farmhouse
as if to beckon me back to my childhood.
But somehow I knew (even while asleep)
that to near that house and then to go inside it
would not be the stuff of happy dreams.
There was a reason for the coldness of the night, the moaning of the wind.
The summer days have fled. Between the nightmare and the dream,
subconsciously I knew
you simply cannot go home again.
she showered the sky in anthracite crimson and sepia
eclipsed broken pencils and crayons moulded together
took a fading snap shot in memory of what’s yet to come
a soft touch surpassed clawed grips of splintered sorrow
outlined peripheral beauty on the transcripts of passing
rescued cinnamon and ultramarine from darkness of night
as she climbed past the pinnacle of rational composure
fresh mysterious shades surpassed stark intentional hues
compounded tapestry of magical sketches into her truth
when the moon waxed in slow motion to a tune of innocence
doubts waned as evaporation dried the canvas and pattern
of unrepeatable capture of reason to emotion’s delight
she took another sip from an overflowing fountain of measure
repainted the scene from scrap books of subconscious mind
unaware of translucent epiphanies moistened on parchment
18th May 2020
TULUM
a fortress on the cliffs,
smiles down
at the paradisaical
Riviera Maya.
iguanas, reside in ruins,
overlooking
the Caribbean sea,
sitting pretty
for photographs.
long gone from old world -
sacrifice and fear,
Mayan riches and power,
of Playa del Carmen.
iguanas rest, play
tourist peek-a-boo,
never give thought nor sorrow,
to the people of yesteryear.
we don’t fear their reptile existence,
their abundance,
nor daunting size,
perched upon impressive buildings -
an ancient city of life and death,
good and bad,
repainted by the critical sun.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
After Their War
David J Walker
There was only desire and comfort/convenience
Laced with certain frames of entertainment
in between the crap games played with life
Everything OD green was repainted
except the screen with the
Signal filled cable
Nothing was on except a thousand reruns
From the dawn of television
And another thousand Audie Murphey movies
Mother may I borrow the View-master
Father will you be done soon with the Funk & Wagnall
The Earth will end in a thousand-year freeze
After a nuclear war Says my science teacher
who said to look it up
Marks grandfather was a WWI soldier who
Knew Captain Truman
He still Screams at night when
the bombs start falling
again
An Uncle got a fake leg after the Battle of the Bulge
He never said anything and I was afraid to ask
My Draft Number was high but
I volunteered to anyway
Did anyone contemplate life
after their war
If so
What did it look like to you
It’s time to write of unnecessary things,
to imagine alternative endings to journeys not taken.
It’s time to write of bits of string,
one small fake discolored Swiss Army knife,
a lucky pebble that has brought me nothing but its own
preordained boredom.
However, string, knife, and stone
have had nothing good to say about me for years.
I could write of more back-of-the-draw stuff,
or redraw the landscape of my youth
snipping and pasting-in a cast of characters
that never existed,
for it is still true that every tale
needs to be repainted from time to time.
For the time being, I am these hands
wrapped around a muggy mug of coffee,
these thoughts scrimshawed
upon its unwashed rim.
Out of my beachside window
I see the dawn, red each morn.
The seascape a blue-white scene draped,
Upon the green and yellow of the landscape,
Of vegetation and ocean adorned by belt of sand,
By hiss and fizz, roar and rumble, of waves relentless,
Surging into the shallows and spreading gently onto sandflats,
Like a bride's embroidered lace wedding veil impelled gently by the breeze.
For every day here, is a celebration, a marriage of earth, sea, wind and waves.
A scene repainted every morning by the sun that rises from the sea,
Blushing the attendant clouds with red, orange and yellow flush.
Casting bright sunbeams into the clouds above.
My window a canvas on easel, for the seascape,
Painted just for me, an escapee,
An obsessed devotee of sea.
I dyed my small world
In the colours of grief
I couldn’t find comfort
But I longed for relief
All my fabric was dark
I was shrouded in black
The weight of the world
Felt full on my back
I walked amongst shadows
With a feeling of dread
No one could reach me
with the words that they said
Yet this wasn’t a place
I was required to stay
My Lord He whispered
“You can leave, it’s Okay.”
My love brought her brushes
Colourful paints and her crayons
With brushes fingers and toes
She spread joy around
She repainted my world
Yellow, Purple and Gold
Each painting a flower
I now thankfully hold
I embraced her rainbow thinking
Let my sad drop to the floor
Dispensing of my gloom
I didn’t need it any more