Long Romanticized Poems
Long Romanticized Poems. Below are the most popular long Romanticized by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Romanticized poems by poem length and keyword.
A quarter rest breathed into my consciousness, a playful pretense of a warm hand gently placed above my heart, calming my sedulous spirit.
—by the Poet
When Paris Was All The Rage
Slow sound of the sax; I lay back
and listen to good-old-day lyrics,
when Paris was all the rage,
and the time of love has past
for the old maid sipping wine
on a sidewalk café; staring,
are we, into the eyes of a painting
rainy and colorful; romanticized
by the simmering sound of the sax;
its notes buoyant on the Seine.
Raindrops of gray, blue and cherry
blossom; a scant smile on red lips,
reminiscing the fading beau and hours;
clicking heels and handsome dress.
Sedate and cocksure lyrics and vocables
regulate my heart, warm my pulse points.
A voice croons, as the ‘phonist’s fingers gyrate,
tingling all the senses; cabernet dimmer switch.
The band was loud, but in the other room and the bar was jammed.
He set his drink down a little too hard and it over-sloshed a bit.
“Run away with me,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “I’m done with school!”
“Well.. you graduated - that’s why you’re done,” she said, somewhat confused.
“We share a gravity, you and I - we’re.. we’re like aligned suns,” he romanticized.
“You should’ve majored in sales.” she said, sipping her own beer.
“Our love is so real, so raw - it's pure and yet - so street.”
“We have ‘love cred’?” She asked doubtfully.
“Wherever we go, we'll navigate that urban maze, hand in hand, we’ll OWN those concrete streets, we’ll paint our own graffiti!
“Have you snorted something?’
“No matter what life throws at us, we’ll face those challenges head-on and we'll stay united.”
“Have you been practicing this?” She asked
“We’ll swagger,” he said, “our love will be timeless..”
“And rhymeless,” she interjected hopefully.
“Together, we’ll be urban legends..” he continued.
“Like Bonnie and Clyde?” she asked, making a yuck face.
“We’ll be living art,” he said dreamily.
“Sounds dope.” She admitted.
“Then you’ll DO it?” He asked.
“Until Monday,” she said, nodding in assent, “classes start on Monday,” she shrugged.
“It was worth a shot.” he said stoically, after a moment.
“It was a good pitch’” she said, taking his hand in hers.
“I didn’t oversell - I wasn’t too pushy?”
“No, you were right there,” she assured him.
“Maybe next time,” he said.
“Yeah, maybe next time”
They kissed.
Erasure Poem
So many fake Indians these days
Elizabeth Warren is one
And according to my DNA results
I am too
But my grand-parents spoke Cherokee my mom claims
And they disappeared into the hills
She claims
Is the DNA test wrong?
Was I adopted ?
Or is it possible
That I am a real deal
A real Cherokee
Or am I fake Cherokee???
A Cherokee weighed in on this on Quora
First, I would never call them “fake Natives”.
They are 99% white,
mostly Blue-collar, and New Age Hippie,
Anglo-Americans
who are simply
lost without their own specific identity
that they can proudly Claim,
so therefore,
they search for a certain Popular,
Romanticized segment of Indigenous People
that will “fit”
into their Family’s historical Lore.
Second, it just happens to ALWAYS be …
the Cherokee …
sometimes,
either Blackfoot or Lakota.
AND, “My GGM was a Cherokee Princess”,
as an add-on VALUE.
This is primarily
because of the vast area
formerly inhabited by the Cherokee.
However, the tribes’ interaction
with European immigrants since colonial times,
led to a great deal of intermarriage
with non-indigenous populations.
In many cases people have limited knowledge
of the other Native American nations,
that inhabited the areas in which they live.
However, a lot of this is wishful thinking,
and these people have African American
or other non-European ancestry.
It is fashionable to claim indigenous ancestry ,
in an attempt to legitimize t
Their sense of belonging on our lands.
The reason is simple,
they don’t know the names of the other tribes.
There has never been a song called
“Indian Reservation” about Apache People
or any other tribe but, the Cherokee.
“Indian Reservation”
by Paul Revere and the Raiders.
So if those people aren’t Cherokee
by blood at least it’s in spirit.
And so I conclude
I may be part Cherokee
Part of the lost tribe
Of the Cherokee
But who really knows
My mother took many things
With her to the grave
Lots of family secrets
Things I will never know
But in my heart
I know
That I am part Cherokee
And so I will proudly
Claim I am part Cherokee
In spirt
If not in blood
Unorthodox nonestablismentarian epitome
Describes celibate bent aegis.
Mein kampf illustrates gravitas.
Underdog muted lest intimidation
think bully brandishing fist in my face
threatening to buzzfeed me
a brassy knuckle sandwich.
While breezily reading Judy Bloom,
(whose material geared
toward young adult)
book titled Blubber - published in 1974,
(which year found yours truly - me
undergoing amazing transition
classified as puberty)
bemoaned childhood's end - id est mine
interestingly enough romanticized boyhood
livingsocial within Lake Woebegone
(way before Garrison Keillor
named said fictitious town),
purely swiftly tailored
harried styled fabrication,
although that first decade
found torturous growing up years
more so courtesy
self exclusion from reindeer games,
thus during lunch or recess
(two most favorite classes)
bullies turned me into minced meat
taunted and teased
a severely socially withdrawn boy,
who never shared emotional agony,
he internalized verbal slings and arrows
eventually physically succumbed
from brickbats indiscriminately
lobbed at painfully shy
once upon a time happy go lucky lad,
(with a button nose),
when he whiled away days of his life
as the world turned
first at Lantern Lane
for about a half dozen plus years,
then at 324 Level Road
for approximately
one third of present existence
unbeknownst to him
that psychologically dark shadows
lurked within the outer limits
of the twilight zone
haunting corporeal essence
attached to those lovely bones,
now saddled with excess adipose tissue,
especially around belly of the beast
housing hunger artist
starving for knowledge,
and peopling his overactive imagination
with exemplary protagonists
blithely thwarting incendiary threats,
cuz of natural born defense against
gunning character assassination
courtesy fearsome imbeciles
hell bent on nasty, short and brutish fiends,
who did their collective bidding
vis-à-vis cut throat leviathan,
who overshadowed and locked in
propensity to live free and clear
analogous to unfettered noble savage
cannibalizing yours truly (me) as fancy feast.
Soul asylum salvation sought
as if survivor of mental health challenges
akin to foreigner trying
to sidestep gingerly self annihilation.
You see him in photos of black and white,
standing atop logs drawn by big horses,
he wears a thick wool to stay winter’s bite,
almost as this as the draft team’s courses.
Then he’s in a shack built in the forest,
a table with food made by the cookie,
no time for talking, and no time for rest,
has to shovel down the countless calories.
He’ll burn them nothing big trunks with his ace,
he and another worker the cross-cut saw,
the days brings a strain to shoulder and back,
but it keep shim warm in weather so raw.
Romanticized photos, this I’ll allow,
but more rewarding than what we do now…
It’s a romanticized picture
hanging on my dining room wall,
1907 lumberjacks,
one perched atop lumber stacked tall.
It’s winter, and they have a sled
pulled by two horses, looking bored,
twelve-foot pile of logs they pull,
one teamster with long reigns aboard.
It’s somewhere in the wilderness,
the nothing of northern New York,
four men on foot stand alongside,
dressed in wool for cold winter work.
One holds an axe, that one looks young,
all wear bootpacks over their pants,
with hats and mustaches of old,
looks like a job for a real man.
The trees are dyed in sepia,
the colors are gradings of gray,
it’s the type of nostalgia that
just takes a worried mind away.
Compared to typing on a screen
it seems quite appealing to me,
then I stop and remind myself
most of them never reached sixty…
The proposal would be outlined using a strategic written document.
"Trotts Folly" the business needed an achievement passement and
analysis, so that those who would serve on the board of chairmen
could vote on. The name likely reflects the romanticized, nostalgic,
and popular era it was developed in.;"The Trotts Folly Classic" an
event without details provides insight to what is expected.. Lender will use
the finacail plan to do analysis, a view of past performances and projections.
They told a story of several guy's at a party getting there Woman friends to tie Pigfeet bones into the word love you. It made the unmarried angry, it made the unwanted jealous it made some just plain mad.
Ever free to traverse my world
Yet shackled to an eleven year old promise
I donned a platinum cloak atop a living mountain
Physically high, emotionally low
I held two pairs of hands
While my heart beat out a painful rhythm
A handshake that formed my first friendship
And a typed message that united two lovers
The grayest skies I've ever seen
Sheltered my screens from the sun's glare
Thousands of miles away
Cherry and Lime linked across the expanse
A month of birth and traditions
Lay in shattered pieces under my triumphant body
Barely lucid and smelling like a bar
I held the sun in one hand and victory in another
The strongest scores I'd seen in decades
Danced on a melting page in the summer heat
An old acquaintance left as a master
And in came trouble and a new air conditioner
Ungodly hot and disconnected from the Expanse
I sat in three prisons with only them to guide me
Ever hungry, ever bored, ever exhausted
I ripped victory from the warden's clammy hands
Finally free to bask in the summer sun
I immediately hid in a dark, familiar cave
The winds of love began to whisper in the rustling leaves
As I smiled at the screen I knew as them
I returned to a place I romanticized as Nirvana
Six years later and a completely different man
That world was smaller than I ever imagined
Yet meant more to me then than it ever had before
Pulling the first of my overtime hours
I stopped caring about the work that must be done
My stomach growled and my shorts fell off
Sleep-deprived and starving for whatever scraps there were
Immobile once more, the world began forming around me
Future roads, unbreakable connections, pitch-black voids
The world and all of its frightening futures slipped away from me
And with it, the rest of the year
A dusk enshrouded airport brought them to me
The lover who saved me from past year's poems
As their world and body enveloped me
My aches, woes, scars and tumors melted in their embrace
With a new fire lit inside me
Stoked by anxiety, despair and hope
I don a new cloak of coffee-brown and boom-pole black
And shout into the Expanse once again to open my world
Zenith ~
a fatal lie written in forged gold,
but to read the bruised ballads I’ve bled
upon the palette of pixelated peridots
in ominous silence,
must I speak the
romanticized rhymes of funeral roses?
Perhaps then I’ll nestle
in the crest of nothingness
like a failed poet
numb to the power of thorns…
O embers of raven’s feathers,
I feel the unseen heat
of Hades’ wrath,
burning the lucid mirage
of sakura moon-glade,
and my soul sways along
the razor edge
of a stainless sword,
drunk on white-wine illusions,
oblivious to the
faceless phantoms
mimicking Reaper’s requiem
in spectral synchrony,
summoning wings of dusk
within my eclipsed heart,
to soar as a fire-dragon
kissed by blistering sins,
as if ticking sparks of time
did melt and merge
with psychedelic coals,
where I’ll rule as
the mistress of Lucifer,
hypnotized by
the deceased daffodils…
But I’m not lost.
I crave perpetual peace
away from the
prying eyes of society
that pushed me into
a whirlpool of whirling insecurities,
a maleficent maelstrom of trickery,
dying for a searing sip of afterlife,
where ashes of deceit
will no longer suffocate the sleep
that abandoned me
like the splitting stars in my mind
sprinkling scorching confetti
upon fragile fields…
O beloved, save me
from the dance of death
I long to taste the
tears before the sunrise.
I am frozen,
like an insomniac
gasping for love,
reaching for tender twilight
in a tortured tomb of cryptic tulips,
weaving my heartbeat across
your horizon,
pondering in elegies:
If I were thunder’s sigh,
and you,
the timeless starlight…
Why do lifelines still unravel
your love
in soft, velvety cadence?
For amidst jinxed lakes
between us,
this soul,
r e m a i n s
achingly tied to your
elusive heart…
**Human Hyenas**
Since the dawn of humanity, the narrative surrounding creation has often placed Adam at the center, positioning him as the architect of the enchanting yet elusive Garden of Eden. However, this romanticized view glosses over a fundamental truth: many women became disillusioned with the carefree dispositions and laid-back attitudes that men often exhibited. Over time, this disconnect led to a collective realization among women; they became increasingly frustrated with behaviors that stifled desire and intimacy in their relationships.
Now, in hindsight, it seems that the damage has been done—too many grievances accumulating without sufficient efforts to mend them. Our world, vibrant and diverse, belongs to all of us, representing a tapestry woven from various perspectives and experiences. It transcends the simplistic archetypes of the average Tom, Dick, and Harry. However, the mutual respect that once characterized interactions between men and women has eroded, giving way to a reality where the notion of a man's dominion—founded on outdated theatrical standards—is no longer viable.
Instead, we find ourselves navigating a tumultuous landscape, rife with chaos and confusion, where differing mental attitudes and perspectives collide. In this fractured society, phrases like "I was here first" echo with divisiveness,