Long Ripens Poems
Long Ripens Poems. Below are the most popular long Ripens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ripens poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a beauty in being African
that time cannot tarnish,
a radiance rooted deeper than soil,
older than empires of gold.
It walks in boldness
shoulders squared to the sun,
laughter ringing loud and unashamed,
a voice that speaks truth
even when the world begs silence.
This boldness is not noise;
it is the courage to dance where others mourn,
to dream where others doubt.
Confidence runs through these veins
like the Nile, steady and eternal.
It crowns the woman tying her wrapper,
knowing queens whisper in her blood.
It lifts the young man’s chin
heir of warriors, builders, and griots
carrying centuries in his stride.
We do not shrink.
We remember.
Strength lives here,
not brittle, but supple as palm trees in storm.
It is the grandmother rising before dawn,
tilling soil and planting stories.
It is the father carrying tomorrow
on a back that refuses to break.
It is the youth walking miles for knowledge,
turning hardship into fire.
This strength sings.
It celebrates.
It endures with joy.
And oh, the ebony beauty
skin like midnight polished by the first dawn,
glowing warm under every sun.
A beauty that does not fade
but ripens, deepens, glows.
See the silver threads in elder hair,
woven like wisdom from the ancestors.
See the laugh lines carved by lives fully lived,
the posture still regal,
the eyes still bright with unspoken galaxies.
This beauty ages with grace
because it was never only flesh
it is soul carved from centuries,
dignity wrapped in melanin,
legacy worn as crown.
To be African
is to carry rivers in your blood,
savannah fire in your spirit,
and baobab roots beneath your feet.
It is to move with rhythm older than memory,
to shine without permission,
to stand tall in the shadow of giants.
Here, boldness is birthright,
confidence is inheritance,
strength is song,
and beauty ripens with time
richer, wiser,
eternally, gloriously African.
I've heard your whispers
in quiet moments
amongst the shedding trees of Autumn..
I walk alone our wooded path – listening
the air just as crisp as a bright-blushed Winesap
but my tears not as sweet – glistening
the wispy whispers haunting
taunting in their gentle tug
and I wonder; how easily the golden leaves let go..
with barely a breath of wind’s soft persuasion
they fall away from boughs
each descending like a fated swan
gliding circling fluttering to their end with a taffeta crinkle -
the crinkle reminiscent of a shy fire’s crackle
as they settle and nestle on the forest floor
I remember how we settled and nestled
on the rug before the fire’s supple tongues
home-made hard cider filled our mugs
made from untamed fruits
of wild trees
our flame untamed and wild too
when we were ginger-kissed
and the taste of your lips saturated mine
besotted with our nectar-like love
till satisfied cinders in the hearth serenely died..
I walk alone now with falling leaves
was it Fall who taught you how to let go so gracefully
while October’s wind trembled aspens like harp strings..?
I hear a thousand golden whispers of love
amongst the shedding trees of Autumn.
Susan Ashley
August 27, 2022
~ Second Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand Contest No 1178
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Second Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 13
Sponsor: Mark Toney
*Winesap: an American heirloom apple that ripens in October with a bright/dark red skin, a crisp texture, is aromatic and has a sweet-tart taste. Winesaps get their name due to their distinctive spicy wine-like flavor. Great for hard cider!
Photo: CU Denver News; 2020 Guide to Fall Foliage
*Dedicated to our dear friend Kathie Mendez
It has come to the end of the journey,
And the sun has set, my dear Kathie,
We love you and our hearts sink low,
We miss you and we pray for the soul,
Free like wandering wind in the meadow,
Like rolling cloud on the sky, alone.
We cry but we have to let you go.
For this is the journey planned by the Almighty,
The life destination and destiny,
For we all must take to home,
Like flowers blossom,
Fruit ripens,
In the obedience,
You are home, my dear Kathie, you are home,
Into God's loving arms.
We love you,
We miss you,
Our tears well up and our hearts gloom,
But we have to let you go,
Into God's eternal love and peace,
The Holy light shines upon you,
Rest in peace, my dear, you are home,
In the Kingdom of heaven
The Father, The Son and the Holy Spirit,
Amen!
Deacon Joe & Maria Nguyen
(March 27, 2019)
Your smiling lips, the gentle unfolding of a flower,
Your presence, a soft caress in our comfy bower,
In your eyes I see the depth and mystery of an ocean.
So glad to stay by your side in endless devotion.
Through all trials of life, you have stood strong.
As an anchor and refuge, you have been with me all along.
With courage, you have faced the challenges of life.
Happy and content I am in life as your wife.
How true, love ripens through the years.
You have gifted me smiles and dipped me in tears.
That was when both of us were novices in the art of love
Now we seek each other’s company like a pair of dove.
Your love is not on full display, sometimes kept hidden
At times by irritation bitten, but alike, you ‘re by love smitten
Your passion is a hidden elixir, but without conditions, given free
I come seeking it as your love is like nectar to a bee.
When your hands are raised to wipe my salty tears,
Your care keeps my fragile life from falling into fears.
Even if I lose my looks and vitality with aging years,
I know you’ll keep loving me and treasure me as yours.
Through the unfolding years, I wish you every bliss,
With a prayer that nothing you crave, you shall miss.
May in your remaining life, happy and blissful days unfold.
May God, keep you fit and send His blessings manifold.
As drizzle pours into an hour and another
I glimpse through the wide hole of a skyscape...
Frame by frame, vignettes from adolescence emerge
Where Mother plants new seeds—nettle, dahlia, herb--
Our backyard almost evergreen despite rain,
Tending the aisle of growing shoots with care:
And I wonder...does my parent know I am watching
When her delicate face ripens amid gale’s blow?
All at once, keynotes of life trail like a strained note
Her bent hands tilting up, pained, to taste the dew:
O those eyes dotted in Braille...weary, impaired
By sun-struck years overrun through ceaseless toil
In our garden’s lawn, paddling the holes
On marshy rails with interludes of blissful tunes,
Unmindful a visual sense wanes, stripping
An impassioned ritual to be left unsung:
Yet, it seems all the foliage knows her touch...
She, the key giver of root’s bloom.
1/18/2019 For John Lawless:
Slap The Muse And Turn It Loose
In the green fields of Punjab,
A dark creature stands—
A breathing mountain of dusk,
Yet gentle as a dove.
Through the long silence of day,
On weeds and dry, ordinary grass,
She gathers the unnoticed,
And turns it into a quiet miracle.
Between veins of red and brown,
A pale river begins to move—
Drawn from the dust of herbage,
A secret the earth cannot speak.
Where no light enters,
Something stirs without a sound;
Foliage becomes a silver flow,
Clay ripens into white gold.
Like moonlight poured into a bowl,
Like mercy falling unseen,
It arrives—pure, unannounced—
A gift no eye can fully hold.
What hand shapes this hidden alchemy?
What silence writes this tender law?
The buffalo knows, yet does not speak—
She stands, humble in her giving,
While man forgets the miracle,
And grows loud.
It’s not about letting it go.
It’s about letting it in.
Letting it sink deep.
Letting it move through you
without rushing it toward an exit.
It’s about being honest
with what you feel.
About giving your experiences
the reverence they deserve.
Some things ask for a moment.
Some things ask for years.
There is no shame
in holding what is unresolved.
There is only truth.
“Let it go”
has become the anthem of avoidance,
a performance of healing
by those not yet ready
to sit with their own depths.
We don’t have to play that game.
We let it in.
We let it through.
We let it stay
until it is finished speaking.
Until what it carries
naturally begins to change.
Because growth is not forced.
Transformation ripens.
We write our story
by living it fully,
not by abandoning chapters
before they’ve found their meaning.
You are not behind.
You are not stuck.
You are the sign
you have been waiting for
A day’s routine so easily holds me captive.
I confess to mindless, museless departures,
Brainless unpoetic habits so unreflective,
That I cannot dwell in momentary textures.
But January ripens oranges on my neighbor’s tree,
Marking spring’s beginning in California.
Midwestern groomed; such play awakens me.
Fat, lush oranges tumble all over the area.
Bold bright balls, they must be painted,
Landing in my drive, my car mashes them.
With this mortal crush, I breach life sacred.
Yet, once I eat one, it’s no longer a problem.
Tree of oranges brings fruit reviving passion.
Luscious harvest renewal of vibrant conception.
autumn shakes threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brown stems
each clings to the bough
waiting for the tug of wind
to show buds in leaf axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
kept from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounding what the leaf recalls
wine darkens the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst catches its shine
sweetness ripens when restrained
the tongue leaves a taste behind
on dust-silver shelves
each book keeps its well-thumbed leaves
spines remember hands
binding what the years recall
in their dog-eared aftermath
names fade from old cards
ink gives way to the humdrum
old contacts grow pale
what I leave for others' eyes
means nothing to their kind ghosts
leaf settles on leaf
each layer hides another
last in, first recalled
gathered from one's only life
their weight growing underneath
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about leaves
I shed, keep, forgo
forget, give away, hold back—
each leaves something of a life
My favorite poem of the late, great Keith Bickerstaffe, Petal.
************************************************
Petal
Pink and perfect mystery
to which I ply my finger,
she ripens so exquisitely
the longer that I linger
and fluff the modest blossom
with my gentle loving hand,
teasing, ever pleasing
so that now I understand
how beautiful the flower
that yields without duress,
blooming now so fully
in the warmth of my caress.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2006
*****************************************
RIP, Mr. Bickerstaffe. You are missed!
The Uncontest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
Date written: 06/21/2020