Long Rosewood Poems
Long Rosewood Poems. Below are the most popular long Rosewood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rosewood poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: November 19, 2023, For Ink Empress Contest
The garden of the world has no limits except in your mind. Its presence is more beautiful than the stars with more clarity than the polished mirror of your heart. By Rumi
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Clinging comely crimson cleome curb cosmos
Sky is nebulous with dusk, owing to camos
Ornaments that balmily flicker in the background
Amid whirlpools of jade, scarlet, and indigo found.
Nothing beats a comely asterism of fall nights
To gaze up at the stars and relish the sights
Space wideness may induce mankind to fear
We fathom how desultory we are, through tears.
Diaphanous moon beams brighten the land
Crafting creepy casts curdling children's strands
But the moon is breathtaking in its own right
With a million-year-old mountains and sights.
Amid a silvery sky ignited by the moon
Lonesome island of stars, in a druid swoon
Streets that glisten with dazzling lighting
Crystals of iridescent amethyst shining.
Efflorescence is diaphanous in appearance
Lawns are studded by ruddy lilac buds entrance
Creepy crawlies in azure wind their way upward
Gazebos are sleek and clad in ivory word.
Wispy clouds start to split or disperse
Nebulous mist of the island, to immerse
Elysian Symphony builds to a crescendo
Regarding the violin-produced echo.
Cosmic bodies aligned akin to pins on a map
Assist sailors in spotting their suitable cap
Waterlilies float, creating a gorgeous scene
Lullaby is sung on an idyllic lake, so serene.
The aurora shimmers with an aurified glow
Sewn from spools of gossamer light and flow
A veiled glade is seen by a translucent moon
Rosewood, wisteria, periwinkle, iris leaf tune.
Elixir of gems at night, shine, and dazzle
Host the discovery of feasible ways of gravel
Quintessence of empyreal magnificent form
Bright kaleidoscope prismatic of stars swarm.
rising from cold bones
breaking loose
from iron shackles
in foggy darkness
coming out
of twilight shadows
i saw you
eyes burning red
passion within
opened hands
in awe
held to the lips
beautiful soul
kneeling before you
a goddess
clad in sunlight
sparkling lady
the angels chant
sweet smelling skin
that of rosewood
a dancing soul
inner eye
glowing red
passion within
deep inner being
lips they curl
pouting as if kissed
sweetly craving
a yearning within
the deepest chamber
cradling you love
within a warm glow
as darkness
is washed away
they beg
to kiss
lips moist
upon your soul
The lamp outside my lodgings cut through fog of dirty grey,
I donned my coat and hat ready to start another day.
The sound of hooves on cobbles meant my transport was at hand
I stepped onto the pavement as it pulled up at the stand.
Quick turn of the brass handle, creaky door swung open wide,
a short leap to the footplate and I clambered up inside.
The bench seat buttoned velour, colours fading, rather frayed,
long scratches on the rosewood round the Marquetry inlaid.
We bounced and swung on straps and springs and galloped through the streets,
Side window broken in one corner, letting out the heat.
Outside the Quad I paid my fare and stepped into the cold,
and thought 'how many other Derby cabs are quite that old?'
Inspired by an article in today's local paper regarding the age
and appalling state of some of our local Taxi cabs.
Butterina is not the faerie you see every day on Manhattan streets
you would not be spotting her sharing a Celtic Irish dance either
No matter how fey you are, Butterina might escape your notice
Full of butterfly dreams and autumn love songs, she is pure joy
Easily missed in the soft cool breeze of the Cottonwood leaves
Often invisible to us as she flies past on a red cardinal’s back
Butterina has shown herself to less than a handful of children
I do not think any adults have seen or can remember her actually
I am unsure myself now if I she was ever here at all
Showing off her flirty butterfly wings and her rosewood ways
Or is she a bit of imagination left over from my pirate days
when I used to dream also of mermaids?
I met her in a pawn shop on a warm summer night
When running from the rubble of my shattered life
To sell a broken dream that would never come true
An engagement ring to pay for the rent that was due
There she lay sleeping in a battered rosewood bed
Heart strings breaking in a rusty sea of velvet red
So hauntingly beautiful, she took my breath away
Violin - an old reject who would change my life that day
So I bought Violin and lived out on the street
And played Rhapsody in Blue as coins fell at my feet
And soon we had a little flat high above the Bay
And every day, I got better with every note I played
Today I am a maestro playing Carnegie Hall
My name in lights blinking on a Marquee Wall
For it was I who saw myself in Violin
A tarnished soul and the beauty buried there within
Author: Elaine George
Written: 2013
WHEN THE WInD BLEW THROUGH THE HOLLOW REEDS
written by: Pannus Sphinx
native to regions of habitual areas the Brya ebenus tree is
best suited for flutes, english flutes one would say
the bassoon is created from this type of tree
planks from the boards of the black maple tree
can also be used with resin to produce
beautiful instruments and marvelous creations
along with the sugar maple these trees are fashioned to
impress sound and longevity were it the best choose
to craft a musician's dream instrument
density and hardness the black locust is a suitable alternative
to the traditional rosewood the has been historical used
to make instrument bows and xylophone bars
Due to the lackof finacail security the 61 members of the group were visiblly sad. They thought they could afford 40 bassoons from there tresuery: but were only actaully able to afford 27 due to the outragous cost of these custom made tresures. They were able to smile when the artisain send bows and xlophones peices free for the amount the Orcastra had purchased. They referred to the instruments as clownish flutes.The deep tones were nearing exotic, giving the directer of the event cause to limit the amount of peoplke able to attend the Board meeting due to cost. Catered the affair over-ran the budgeted allocations from the tresury. This made the couples in the Orchastra smile: but those who wanted to vacate along with there musical mates had to pay the addition cost due to the budgeted restictions. Leaving sound soured by the whole affair.
The performance was expected to be ledgendary to the benifet of the audeince. Velvety smooth and soothing. Purple and creamed colors were the chose of colors for the event. Catered by a world famous chef. the audeince only knew the the results of practice: but back stage professionals shined doing what they did best!
The shelac still smelled fuming the backstage area.
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
This is the last piece to go. All the others are sold.
I hate to part with it, but now that I've grown old
I need to find the right home for it before I die.
I'll explain its importance if you're wondering why.
You see, it's been a treasure since before I was born.
My father found it buried in a city that was war torn.
He marveled that among all the rubble and concrete,
no scratch marred its beauty nor was it burned by heat.
It graced our living room with the status of a Queen,
Most beautiful Brazilian Rosewood vanity ever seen.
Father had to have it to match the great beauty of his wife,
Adrianna, was fragile and giving birth to me took her life.
Father gave me the vanity, a priceless piece, an heirloom.
One rainy day I was bored and was dancing around my room.
I bumped into the vanity and from behind a drawer fell a note...
"Who ever finds this, look for the secret," my Mother wrote.
That was seventy years ago, and no secret did I ever find.
Age has taken my strength away and now that I am blind,
I can no longer search for the secret within this vanity.
I want it to belong to someone kind while I still have my sanity.
It's being auctioned by verbal bid so I can hear the voice
of the one I deem worthy of my treasure. I'll make the final choice.
Money is no longer important so the auctioneer will look to me
when that special voice I hear, I'll nod and that bid will be the fee.
I've set no starting bid and no reserve for it's time to let it go.
Come, take a look. Rub your hand across the wood grain's glow.
I hope you will find the secret my Mother hid so well inside,
perhaps a young man will take it home, as a gift for his bride.
The value to me is priceless, and I would sell it for only a cent.
If I hear something in your voice, I will know for you it's meant.
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February 24, 2016 " The Auctioneer Contest by Mystic Rose
I wait for you in the moonlight
In the quiet of the night
Within this room that holds
So many moments of your life
The dreams you've dreamed
Still linger here
Between these flower-papered walls
That look beyond the window
At the Autumn leaves that fall
A quilted robe lies draped across
A wicker rocking chair
That held you and rocked you
When grief
Was more than you could bear
A bassinet now empty
Where once a baby slept
Remains enshrined
Chained to a time
By the million tears you wept
A picture of a handsome man
With you there by his side
A bride and groom so in love
With stardust in their eyes
Stands behind a pane of glass
Within a gilded frame
Where your lip prints and
finger prints
On its surface..still remain
And now...
I hear your slippers
As they slide across the floor
And I hear...
Your laboured breathing
Outside this bedroom door
And I know that soon
I'll hold you
Here in this flower-papered room
And soothe your old
And frail body
In the light of a silver moon
I...your old companion
An antique Rosewood Bed
Let me hold you...Mary Beth
I..the best friend you've ever had
Let me hold you through the night
And bring you back...again
Sweet Mary Beth
Into the morning light.
Saturday nights at Barney’s
Rowdy Cowboy Honky-Tonk,
Our band sang soulful love songs
That cried while our guitars wailed.
We oozed moods for fresh lovers,
And throbbing hearts on the mend,
Through those timeless tuneful nights
While Gus wiped his rosewood bar.
After crowds slunk off with night
We sang our most heart-felt songs
To the posters on the walls.
We sang for the fallen stars
Who had blazed through there before.
We lullabied a bleached blonde
Whose shining eyes seemed frozen
On bald Gus behind the bar.
On Tuesday nights at Barney’s
Four young Texas country boys
Poured out heartfelt harmonies
For cups in the coffee shop.
Eighteen wheelers chugged by
As hopeful neon winked at stars,
Coaxing folks to Barney’s door
And dour Gus behind the bar.
When the night was on the wane
We sang for the fallen stars
On the posters on the walls,
Who had blazed through there before.
Our final song we played best:
For a tiny nightingale,
A Texas blonde in buckskins
And auld Gus behind the bar.
Now twenty years from Barney’s
Still singing songs for lovers;
At times mending aching hearts
‘Midst stale smells of smoke and beer,
Our drums beat as hurting hearts
While we croon to forlorn chairs
And remember Barney’s where
Gus wiped glasses at the bar.
We sing our final love song
For a Texas blonde who’d sung
To gray Gus behind the bar.
We sing to little Linda,
The faded belle of Barney’s
Whose faint and wrinkled poster
Was found hung loose on the wall,
Beside Gus behind the bar.