Long Rinses Poems
Long Rinses Poems. Below are the most popular long Rinses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rinses poems by poem length and keyword.
Rhapsody of rainbow splits in morose mélange
Bleeding colors sucked from crumbled clouds
Rainstorm rinses the stains on broken hearts
Shades of grey paints the frayed linen of love.
Requiem of rose echoes melancholic medley
Petals hold the tear in drops of mourning dew
Dries under the summer sun of desert mind
Wilted flowers lay posy on the spent passion.
Cacophony captured in the melody of music
Chaotic orchestra rides on disharmony wave
Strained smiles bared in dark podium of life
Songs turn convoluted noise in hollow souls.
Facet of life seen through liquefied cynic stratum
Sunken essence of living refracts vile contortions.
January 15, 2019
Contest : All Yours (Feb 17)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Life comes as it goes
It is designed as it flows
The easiest parts
Come with the hardest darts
Aiming from all directions
Guiding you on your next connections
To strengthen your soul
And navigate through the celestial pole
An everlasting journey
That will reveal itself like a ferny
Come to discover your hidden abilities
It will cleanse any hostilities
From the depths
I rise!
No longer feeling the pain
Having been through it and coming out sane
It’s a hard knock life as they will say
Keeps coming at me every single day
Protecting my thoughts from being taken away
It comes as it goes and it will become a surprise
From the depths I rise!
Will continue to pray for strength
To battle these demons through a multi wavelength
Keeping them at bay
Rinses my soul off of harms way
No matter how many times the rain dries
From the depths I rise!
Not knowing how or where I will go
I will continue to flow
To the sound of my heartbeat
As the wind blows through me
Wiping away my tears from my eyes
From the depths I rise!
No longer hurt in fear
Does not matter if the end is near
It will always be blue skies
From the depths I rise!
The rhapsody of rainbow
melts in morose mélange,
the concoction of colors
bleeds bland in
shattered silence,
sucked out
of crumbled core
of sensuous cloud,
soothing rain rinses
the stains in broken hearts,
shades of grey paints
the frayed linen of love,
redundant.
The requiem
of longing patina
of repentant rose
resonates melancholic medley
in the portals of petals,
the faded gloss
turns into tears
in pearls of mourning dew,
desiccates uncared
under the summer sun
of the desert mind,
the wilted flower falls
on weathered gravestone
of spent passion,
departed.
The cacophony captured
in the melody of forlorn music,
chaotic symphony floats
out of tune
on disharmonic wave,
strained smiles displayed
with elusive enactment
in ostentatious podium of life,
songs turn into echo
of convoluted noise
in hollow souls,
pretentious.
The intriguing facet
of listless life
seen entranced
through liquefied layers
of cynical stratum,
configures pessimism
in the sunken essence
of living exaltation,
the apparent aspect
refracts defiled expression
of warped existence,
enshrined.
In tents some great adventures dwell.
Intense are nights where flashlights swell.
Sites are intimate and spacious.
Sights agree, the Lord is gracious.
Peeks of heaven's breath surround us.
Peaks within trek's reach astound us.
Wood is obtained for bright campfires.
Would the stars contain more desires?
Chilly's the night's bite, but fire's hot.
Chili warms in a blazing pot.
Bear tracks establish remote paths.
Bare your heart and permit it baths.
Tales are told with a stirring hush.
Tails are hidden in every brush.
Close the tent door, starve mosquitoes.
Clothes are laid out before we doze.
Creaks pierce the woods; we turn and toss.
Creeks trickle nearby trees with moss.
Dew rinses clean night's unsound fears.
Do saplings emerge from your tears?
Cents are exchanged for a shower.
Scents of nature overpower.
Deer prance upon nature's backyard.
Dear mom, enjoy every postcard.
Write when something touches your heart.
Right here in the midst I must start.
3/11/2021 (homophone beginnings)
Maria Flores
1878-1923
Si, he was muy macho!
I was the last to see him.
Before Senor White sealed his body for eternity,
Inside the cheapest casket I had ever seen!
And I was working there, for White-Emerson,
From the time I was 16,
Combing the dead’s hair, and mixing make-up.
Señora White, she put the make-up on their faces,
And I stood back by the door and watched.
At first, it was two or three bodies a week,
Mostly white folk, stiff and cold as ice;
They were Whittier people I did not know;
Older folk with life’s road behind them,
And young childer, brought in by wailing parents,
Dead from sickness and accident.
I prayed for these poor people because they were sad.
Later, the visits of the ever-marching dead,
Became a more common event,
Every day he, Señor White, brought the dead in,
Every day I combed their hair.
This I did until I myself died in 1923,
Giving birth to my still-born son.
Then it was my turn for Señora White,
To apply my face with fake life;
Her creams, rinses and perfumes, magically,
Made me appear as alive as I was.
But oh, I wish now to trick fake death,
And live again,
Be there again,
Down in the dark embalming room,
There at White Emerson, with him.
Si, he was muy macho!
And yes, I was the girl to love Roscoe last!
Me, a nobody Mexican with little money.
Shh, let us whisper now.
Let us be quiet and honest;
I was the last one to coddle him there,
The last to stroke his lifeless bill,
My eagle of a man!
There in the still darkness,
He, the most handsome boy,
My eyes had ever seen!
Dead and lifeless there,
In my secret embrace!
Dead in my controlling grasp!
I combed his locks for two hours,
And prayed, yes, I prayed,
For his departed soul, and body too,
For, let it be known to all,
For it no longer matters at all,
I was the last girl to have him.
Muy Macho!
You can't march dirt from soiled laundry –
one needs a strong detergent, and several
cycles of rinses. You can't vote dictators
out of office – they do the counting, generally
counting the people out. The world is in a
fix; America in the mix. We need our, so called,
representatives in Washington to gain a backbone...
and not just ring their hands while pontificating –
or are they all so conflicted themselves, that they
dare not do their jobs?
Evil devours Evil! In time a powerful,
ruthless person, decides to do good for
the people – just to get the masses on
his side. So the seat of power can be
transferred. Sometimes a group of well
to do individuals, tired of politics
as usual, have an epiphany...and an
America is born!
swoosh of the vacuum
swipe of cloth in circular
patterns. climbing up step stool.
snatching away cobwebby art.
searching for spaces to permanently stash.
sensuous path of cleaning cupboards
and their concentric circle knobs.
the daily sway and swing of caring
for the darling home she occupies.
dressing before the eyes of the mirror,
mere steps before the date
with her sweetheart husband,
who's been screwing around
his loving home, hammering
alone, sweating with serious
thought, trying to ignore
the scent of her, the bounce
of her hair, the swish of satin,
delicious lips and palpitations
inside his muscular chest.
the shower with its glorious shine
rinses away his hard work.
he unhurriedly dresses,
remaining cool and charming.
keys jangle, industrious home locked,
engine rumbles in the chill of the night.
light conversation and cocktails.
home again, she stops
him from entering.
a pause, a kiss under the moon and stars
before he takes her to Jupiter and Mars
8/23/2018
Dark grey first autumn breath a bone chill hint,
summer’s sun- rash boom absconds on trailing glint,
luscious terrain brazen in hue’d rose cheek,
hazy mountain slope a sombre damp peak,
tint and tapestry awakened brisk fall gasp,
dapper drift net shades spawned to grasp,
pigment in meadow mould a gold rim beige,
tone shift bold red, earth brown, copper rage,
sweet gum tree orange, purplish fervent die,
to sniff katsura pink tree, charred candy sigh,
hail harvest bountiful, heart rippling feast,
red fire ablaze, hungry tongue wild yeast
beetroot, turnip, parsnip, root crops galore,
“Falls” raw lungs whiff hearty soup of yore,
yet honey-tinged morn, fleet of foot pause,
fades as cold plummet primes its icy claws,
green copse shrunk, drab moon weepy tune,
woodsy wren hoarding food in mournful croon.
mud squelch booth on path, smog purged lair,
wet moss splurge rinses pollen, season gulps air,
spry children, spruce grown ups, senior agers eschew,
the callous jolt of swift month baton swop anew,
later inklings mired in blizzards, frost bite, black ice,
has the fall as sly baptist with its soft blest vice,
warm July sand castle bounce, blue sea wave swim,
consigned to wistful hark back, stark ninth month grim,
latent edgy blue mood, strayed focus, dull phase,
strict shift to rationed bright spells, murky welkin haze,
decay in dwindling twilight irks sept.stuffed nose,
yet Fall cleans its passageway with breezy prose
Mister Joe, would-be muse,
jangles loose change in his pocket.
Memories jogged and garnered as he walks.
Mister Joe in contemplation,
washes, rinses and tumble dries, what pops into his head,
in hourly cycles, with riddles, jingles and rhymes.
Each wash-up, extracted, pegged, and hung up to dry,
to taunt and flap jangles for him,
for his readers, and strangers who happen to pass on by.
Mister Joe, would-be muse,
casts charms, jangles and sparkles,
to jog in the minds of his readers.
His words cast nets to trawl up memories and serendipity dips,
in the minds of his readers with word play, puzzles and twists.
The catch netted, is prodded, poked, shaken and stirred,
to inspire twinkles, sparkles, hums, aahaa's, grunts,
and perchance, nods of appreciation and delight.
Mister Joe's catch of memories, once jarred and jangled, are returned to reader with care.
For the reader to add jangles to their pockets,
and gems to their lockets and charm bracelets.
Mister Joe, would-be muse, and his reader, now walk with jangles echoing within.
Who will make a stand?
Countless like the seashore sand…
Who shall make a stand?
The end of mankind is at hand
Will someone save me?
Knee deep in regret, I see…
Save me from gravity's hold or I’ll be upset
Nighttime's rainfall shines upon my mindset
Make me feel a little bit more bold
Let my wings of flight slowly unfold
Release is a relief for you and I to behold
Your fire is burning within me, yet I’m so cold
Release me
Release me
Reflect on me
Radiant rain rinses it all away…
Mirror my pain
Ease my pain
Heal my pain
I’ve been squandering my time…my time…
Lost my soul in the dust and turned to grime
Here am I, alone in the shadows of your past
Here I am, trying to catch up to you, but you’re going so fast…
In need of release somehow
In need of true relief right now
I don’t need your vain remedy
All you do is watch me and desert me…
I will change who I am…who I really am
With hopes and chances of release
I shall overflow like water beyond the dam
I beg you, don’t be an awful tease
Please understand my heart’s need of a mend
My silent plea is for you to simply comprehend
My plea of set me free…
My plea of, also, leave me be…
You saw me all alone,
But not on my own
God has rescued, comforted and conquered me
With a calm release that has completed an eternity
(I made this poem shorter for the liking of my fellow readers…thanks for reading!)