Long Roman candles Poems
Long Roman candles Poems. Below are the most popular long Roman candles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roman candles poems by poem length and keyword.
"The Epiphany Rose"
All well and good,
the story unfolds;
the isolating madness
drew out the poets
in all the shunned
playing up and out
their origami
word games
something like
an epiphany rose
in them, the mad,
recalcitrant ones,
like nuns leaving
the genuflecting aisles
turning backs
before all their
starched alters
dripping idols
no longer really there,
they were somewhere
outside of It all;
the closed rose
turned around
to walk as one,
out the doors
into the blazing sun
finding some
strange reunion,
peeling off their
dark layers,
their novitiate
romance, their
too hot habits
disgarded
under indigo sky
of long dark nights,
reeling in the dream
like cotton thread
from a spinning wheel,
strange Ezekial creatures,
their nakedness
witnessed like
whirling dervish
calling in revolutions,
the expected extracted
arriving in the rolling clouds
another kingdom comes
swiftly opening
minds like roman candles
exploding like spiders
across the stars…
the timeless road
is now wide open
and well lit
(Ladylabyrinth / 2023)
"…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…”
(Keroac)
"Wherever the spirit would go, they would go, and the wheels would rise along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels. When the creatures moved, they also moved; when the creatures stood still, they also stood still; and when the creatures rose from the ground, the wheels rose along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels."
(Ezekial)
“Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush I can only genuflect
Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush
In the gold dust rush
Honey it is horrible
(In the gold dust rush)
There's locusts in there
She's got the old fool gold …"
(Cocteau Twins)
"The Meditative Rose"/Dali
"Picasso Blues"
Blue Sky
met
Blue Feather
on a
Blue Day
Collaborating
a slow dance
across the
lost dance floor
crowded
with more
than a thousand
hidden
keys to truth
ignoring
a thousand
poker playing
game changing
whispers blinking
in the dark room
poetically
seduced
immersed in
mirrors
shades of
dark and light
fingers playing
out notes in
quite volume
drowning in
black and white
to loud
slow rolling
Picasso Blues
silence
in a moment
romanced
no noise
and those
wide open
emerald green
hues
reflecting
freediving
fathomless
Periwinkle Blues
(LadyLabyrith/2019)
"Picasso Blue" / Might Mo Rodgers
https://youtu.be/AkPcNCnQU70
"I'm So Lonely" / Mighty Sam McClain
https://youtu.be/zBFjWr_sJh8
"Am I the One" / Beth Hart
https://youtu.be/ziy_WKNnNNk
“[...]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road
“Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.”
Anais Nin
"Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don't be sorry.”
Jack Kerouac
Author's Notes: ;)
1. https://buddyguy.com/index.cfm
And Jesus said unto them, Verily I say unto you,
That ye which have followed me, in the regeneration
when the Son of man shall sit in the throne of his glory,
ye also shall sit upon twelve thrones,
judging the twelve tribes of Israel.
— Mat 19:28
Talking megaphone coneheads
spouting vanilla dreadnought thoughts,
tell downtrodden people
heart sad
that native tribalism is
very, very bad
Shouting loud dead air
in the global village public quorum square,
from the lowest cathedral step
to the highest pagoda steeple
They ignorantly reason, but rightly declare:
ballot tribalism divides people
Beating donut-glazed hands
on a rating spike miked-up chest
Cinnamon napalm breath
pounds the warpath ear drums:
All saying their birthday suit living
looks abundantly the best,
while the birthday cake slices given
are always the societal less
Buttery speech spit missives
light the Roman candles
Tribalism is the bogeyman lurking shadowy,
causing sweat tightened grips
on ivory-plated handles
Such nuclear rhetoric divide minds so easily
Should truth ever be told humanely ...
we’re one blood ~ one family
Twelve equal parts of one parental sum
But, there be those
who will toss division darts
at anyone who oppose
Shhh ... Listen to the heavenly serenade
prayer heard nightly
A dawn mist awakening sun glow bade
speaks healing truth unto
the brokenheart beat
Pulmonary bleed pierce was manmade
Tribalism is very, very good
infinity unity
to souls planted in pure Light not shade
THE FOURTH OF JULY HAT
We used to celebrate July the Fourth when the kids were young—
Till they grew up and moved away and life became far-flung.
Yes, once we toasted freedom’s day and shot off big fireworks—
Now I sit here in this dark bar surrounded by some jerks.
We used to ride our horses on this Independence Day,
We barbecued and downed a few and for our nation prayed.
Then the show of fountains, Roman candles and Black Cat—
Till judges and town laws ruled: “You aren’t allowed to do that!”
Slowly the country lost its way and now it seems insane—
Shredding our constitution with rights of eminent domain.
Now Addie’s gone and I’m alone to tend to this old spread,
Till slickers come and crowd me off and I’m just left for dead.
Now holidays don’t mean too much and good times just don’t last,
I wonder if folks understand sacrifices of our past?
So on this Fourth I watch fireworks upon a bar room screen,
My wrinkled skin like leather now, but oh, what I have seen…
They’re playing our nation’s anthem and I’m sure liking that,
When some young tough rudely yells: “Cowboy, I can’t see through your hat!”
But I feel a bit stubborn and cling to what I have left
And sit there till he says, “Old man, are you a little deaf?”
Slowly, I take that hat off, and feel for something inside—
Then put on an old folded army cap with deep love and pride.
Then as the last fireworks fade, and loud rockets burst and whir—
That young man shakes my hand and says, “Happy Fourth of July, sir.”
The croft was the centre of our universe,
About it all day we kids would converse.
We talked of raiding a few streets away,
We would steal their wood without delay.
Then on the night, we stood, eyes bright,
As the grown ups, the fire did light.
The flames at first were yet to sprout,
We all shouted "the fires gone out".
Then with a woosh the kindling caught,
It traveled fast through the rest
We kids watched with bated breath,
As the flames began to beat,
All stepping back from the heat.
The fire consumed all we had stacked,
The old folk sat on old furniture with care,
Supping stout from jugs by their chairs.
Then the kids cries did rent the air,
The flames had reached Guy Fawkes chair.
He went up in a blaze of glory,
But that's not the end of my story.
Out came the boxes of fireworks now,
Rockets and bangers and Catherine wheels,
All the sparklers to make the kids squeal.
Roman candles, volcanoes, we had the lot.
Then out of the fire came the baked spuds,
Too hot to handle, so were spiked with wood.
Toffee apples and brittle treacle squares.
All the Mum's were proud of their wares.
We kids were covered in muck as we ran about,
Hoping that the fire would not go out.
Our eyes streaming from the smoking fire,
Our Mum's decided it was time to retire.
Aw just a few minutes more, we pleaded to Mum.
Ok then it's bed cos I'm tired ee ba gum.
© Dave Timperley for Bonfire night 2018
My drapes are drawn tight,
in the morning of our afternoon,
after the fall – beyond the light
of a silent evening spent.
Dusk spits a new shine
upon the facets of my mood ring
and sunrise alarms me again.
Fish hooks evenly lure my smile
into place - when bated breaths
are baited by an anticipated gentry -
and the inverted frown I wear
stretches undetected
when performing
index-fingered handstands
for the empty allured.
Such a celebration am I.
A firecracker when we kiss.
"The sun sets in his eyes...
succulent, cabbage-red and resplendent…”
Clichéd stammering; dulled
as you turn your softly curved frame
into a prisoner's unresolved sensitivities.
Nonetheless...the innocent know -
His touch is real. Feathered, soft -
even when the entranced cripple is sobbing.
Roman candles sparkle
within a distant vagabond’s eyes.
Starch him!
Savor the moment!
He'll voluntarily burst forth -
and everything you'd want from
a strayed waif's aorta will be
auctioned back...
and eventually sold.
Like ruby-hued vegetables.
Like drawn drapes.
Like morning…
when biting your pillow case
neatly grinds waking into the laughable...
…and a forgotten sunrise
toasts the unremembered misfit
as an invisible champagne cork - pops!
her finger to his lips,
the mood like an eclipse.
she’s set the bed so it won’t quake,
not yet.
her satin gown shifts slowly,
like accentuated snowflakes.
the moon illuminates the hallowed place.
she flickers with the candlelight,
bare feet on rose petals, her wrists
orchestrating the space above the clouds -
a tender dance, sans music.
she needs him to hear
the deafness of the night,
then she can make love to him,
as if he knew
a world where only lightning can succumb
to the pitter-patterless rain; noiseless crackle,
the ebony sky with plumes of ziggurats.
afterall, she’s wont to create fireworks
in the marriage bed; roman candles,
catherine wheels, head over heels
in love with him,
and he hears her.
she kisses his tears.
he hears her quiet heartbeat.
the ornate swan and royal blue,
her charms,
the twining of vanilla and rose...
the honeymooners in vociferous throes.
this night of nights — the chamber undulates
as her spouse embraces the storm.
he craves fidelity*, her infinity.
6/25/2020
Sensuality Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
*state of being faithful; accuracy of details
In the palm of the universe, only the mad ones dare to tread,
Mad to live, to speak, to be saved from the relentless currents of time,
Craving everything at once, like a blazing sun at its zenith,
They never yawn, nor utter the mundane, but burn with the brilliance of fallen stars,
Like fabulous yellow roman candles bursting into webs among the stars,
Their light dances upon the walls of my soul, weaving dreams I can never touch,
While sandcastles rise in my wandering mind, without foundations to hold them.
Marble staircases and crystal chandeliers waltz in the echoes of forgotten dreams,
Through the labyrinth of unwritten memories, I roam, lost and searching,
Unaware of the source of this sweet poison that floods my senses,
Oh cruel universe, why do you show me only shadows of happiness?
Let me glimpse the light that dances, yet remains untouched by any hand,
In the merciless universe, why reveal mere shadows of joy,
When my prayer is an echo of unfulfillment, a melody without end,
That is lost in the infinity of the universe, untouched and unheard by anyone.
The people’s choice
ain’t always the right footstool fit
Crown a throne sitter
with electric glam fanfare
Light the bright Roman candles
for a cancer stick spitter ...
See the fireworks in the air:
Inter
Continental
Ballistic
Missives
got voter arm drone sent
Cheek chicanery
is puffing pride hellbent
The home plate people say,
they know how to get around third base
The silent majority
whistle kicked a ballot bray:
Said they know how to rule and regulate
Mute mules got a gut promise packet
burst in their purse belly
White powder vows telly
is a politrician mix: Rublecon racket
Dressed to deceive,
they wear the gorgeous mink sable
Eyes often believe
spit paid broadcast signal on cable
Raw mink voltage
is copper wire insular selectable
Red carpet dotage
give Venus fly idol cries
to the froggy princes they chose
If the cold iron velvet glove
fits tight rightly on the bow hand
Send the poison arrow love
into bent hearts prone to knelling
Taken inside the bowels
of bassoons,
tropical heat from
swelling bows.
Sweat labors the brow,
full with carnal dissonance.
The throat is lunged
by a beast
veiled in foliage.
Spewed in a mass of
broken pickaxes!
Kicked again into the
thunder of claws!
In flames of foundries
lost.
Becoming Roman Candles
opening across the night.
But drinking cool women
in the thaw of glaciers,
smoothing their oblong stones,
clear cleansed lemon lime oboes.
Naked bodies bloom.
Raced around a corner
at top speed,
the pounding of industry,
a worker in goggles
forging metal.
Without notice,
still mesmerized by fire,
in the belly of percussion,
paused
by a dawning pond of sullen fog,
a brief dream
shrouded in ungrasped riddles.
Sudden conductor realized
in the grass of tones,
using his baton as a machete.
On a distant hill
A shepherd beckons.
Animated, beclouded,
a restless crow in search,
a cinematic fade-out.