Long Rouge Poems
Long Rouge Poems. Below are the most popular long Rouge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rouge poems by poem length and keyword.
At 13, I used old tissue paper
to craft my best friend her wedding veil—
a drapery, thrown together in a flurry,
taping together parchment scraps, fragile and pale.
I ripped my old notes to craft her a crown,
to set atop her wind-braided brown mane.
The night before, I spun a construction paper bouquet
that, by four that evening, had wilted away.
She did not want to marry, so we chased her in our childish way,
laughing and breathless, the sky raw and filled with embers.
The grass, like hay, yellowed as the heat stitched our skin—
We and our bride lay spry, soaked in our own September dew.
Under the mess of matted curls, over those childish features,
I saw the rouge appear from running around the bleachers.
Pink with exhaustion, we found a blink of shade under the slender web
of branches, meeting the boy with a smile as soft as the leaves—gentle and tender.
From the dying sycamore, we conjured white arches,
took the paper rings I had learned to fold.
In the marshes, we cleaned our muddy shoes,
and the boy in the collared shirt took her hand to hold.
After, in the fifteen minutes left of our feast on the golden sun,
we spent our time losing all that we had in the mud—
our knees sinking into the moist earth, searching for bugs.
Our parchment flowers—crumpled.
Two paper rings—lost in a stumble.
And her veil—taken by the last mumble of summer.
"A new relationship is like a seed that we plant and nurture ~
it grows into something beautiful and everlasting."
~ Jodi Picoult
When the veins of indigo thoughts in my broken heart
were gently touched by the golden glow within your soul
we blended together in a splendid hue of luminous sheen.
Upon love's palette, we are a soft shade of verdant green
awash in a crimson rouge of blush when I first felt the rush
of romance ignite my senses on our first night together.
So, I'll write what's in my heart, and the verse would start
with white rose petals of rhymes about the many times
I felt blue, wishing you'd recognized what was in my eyes.
Now, they shine with love brighter than amber rays of the sun.
My father dearest,
You did not lose your little girl.
Here I stand,
shaped by your wrinkled hands,
still settling in silken silence
where your velvet voice once lived.
Come, if distance deign to yield
and take again this hallowed hand of mine.
Tell mom to sing again that lilac lullaby
she used to sing as she laid me
in the hammock you once built for me
listen to the susurrus of
of a child's whisper who never went away.
Oh how I deeply long to press my cheeks
upon those weathered hands of yours,
that though worn by labour lost their sheen,
still teaching me what a joy it is to give;
Those hands that love to meet the quill,
and never failed to write fine verses,
sonnets, limericks, ghazals and many more.
How I love to see thy hair in silver strands
that speak the wisdom you truly own
How I adore those wrinkled forehead
that exudes a shining light ~
a torch guiding my way back home.
Here in anamnesis, I return
to that farmhouse you once dreamt for me
where water wanders and wafts in surreal haze
where mango trees bear fruits in abundant grace
I dwell there still,
enfolded in chrysalism's quiet corner.
On Fathers' Day I'll bring you rouge roses tenderly
with sillage that lingers in your favourite settee
And if June has grace to grant me one last plea,
I'd go back to our home and spend my days with thee.
She became a symbols of American pride,
as she made her run down the tracks.
Those big drivers turning eight wheels
and smoke pouring from her stack.
Pulling cars from Chicago to Memphis,
on across that Delta Land,
running down to Baton Rouge and over to the Gulf Coast sands.
She saw the Yellow Dog run where the Southern Cross the Dog
ate shrimp in New Orleans and ribs from a Kansas City hog
She pulled corn out of Illinois and a load of wheat to sell
Rumble on down to Mississippi on the Monday Morning Rail
The engineer, with his hand on the whistle,
keeping the train on time.
His schedule became a badge of honor,
As he ran the railroad line.
He rolled through village and town
then turned the throttle loose,
A hundred tons of solid steel, a
hundred cars and a caboose.
She was called “the future of America,”
Before the diesel took her place.
She kept her date with destiny and lost
In the final race.
History has told the story of an era
that has come and gone,
A hundred years of running the rail,
the steam engine has sung her song.
* For Jessica Alba ... and the splendor of her smile. *
Oh, the enigma of her face ...
Its melting mysteries and moody veneers
When sad, like a brumal, aching, mist-muddled beach
Wild tresses framing it like surf-swept seaweed
Sandy spindrift, left by her squall ...
Then, the smaze lifts ...
The irises spark like dark fire opals
Glistening as the wild wash of the Milky Way
Her smile blooms forth - a dazzling midday meadow
Splashed thick with heather and promise ...
Oh, and all the mad magic ...
The cinematic surprises from there-to-here
Rages of rouge, bawdy blushes, and pale complexions, moony
The multitude of transitions and tones - all divine ...
And all ... my undoing.
~ 8th Place ~ in the "My Upcoming Birthday (09-03) Celebrity - Any Form Cash Prize" Poetry Contest, William Kekaula, Judge & Sponsor.
We met over oysters and scallops in the French Quarter
of a mismatched ether.
She sent pictures - her in a mirror, beside a mirror,
partly hidden by a mirror, naked under glass
(I still have that one).
She liked to reflect and be reflected.
I admired her self-regard, her low-minded succulence,
Her high-handed high-heeled slipperiness.
Raw fresh oysters and Dom Perignon for breakfast and lunch.
Scallops seared in butter on a crostini and a
Sauvignon Blanc for supper.
This minimalist diet kept her svelte, prim, and of course
most improper. I thought of her as a swim without a swimmer,
splashes of her revealing her lovely lips, and they were indeed
lovely,
red but not scarlet more a sea anemone rouge
as it fades to a pink laced coral.
The camera may garnish but it cannot hide
that kind of salty lusciousness
caught fresh every morning.
I likened her to a glistening slickness to be sipped or guzzled
Her words slipped through you like Gaelic eels.
Her neck undulated as a dolphins caress
as she swallowed her catch and zoomed.
I confess to an occasional shame-faced queasiness;
and then oyster and scallops are best consumed
over the internet where too much of them
cannot sour the stomach or tease you softly
with a squirmy aftertaste.
Yet I still imagine her in a mirror again
her teeth as pearly as pearls, yet snip-snip sharp
and as pointy as stiletto’s rent through a fished-up
filet of heart.
Grant me pancakes trolleys
Rocket-fueled swingsets
Marmalade mountains
with high-crusting cream.
Seattle strings its polite passers
Among misting choirs of clouds,
So begging I go for dixie cups of chili
Steaming block by block, as a harsh July
Has every fourth day blue.
I wish for weather with wiggling hues
of pinks, rouge, and mauve,
Landscaped with blazeberries, lazer lemons, and fudge.
Fudge, fudge, for all with small children,
Young puppies, and dwarfed camels,
So we can ride slow, strong, and merry
in bliss-hoofed patterns.
My final wish of this corrugated ten,
Is to speak of such long tales, once rested and spent
Along the shores of our Lord, at the edge of these dreams.
I will not have a carved tombstone;
the wind will carry me.
I've stayed in one place long enough;
one place, one form, one old tome.
I will not lie beneath the soil,
and compost for you see;
I've stayed in one place one enough
on the wayward wind I'll be.
Astral ash, silvered cinders, see
the hills crest, the vale deep,
the tallest pines won't be enough;
snowcovered peaks; be my home.
The jungles deep will shelter me
in flowers rouge, I'll roil.
I've stayed in one place long enough.
I'll ride rapids to the sea.
Not in a crypt, nor box, nor vase
none of them for I decree;
I've stayed in one place long enough
the brash wind will carry me.
* Dedicated to Andie & Fredrick for the inspiration.
My favorite makeup is her smile,
the lip gloss of a soul at ease,
mascara of her grace and style,
the rouge of blushing when I tease.
My favorite jewelry: her eyes,
gold flecks in starburst bright design,
diamonds of silvered moonlight rise
as they gaze deeply into mine.
The beauty marks I love the best
are those that deep within her dwell:
intelligence; a sense of jest;
and faith, her robust citadel.
Her love is that accessory
that ties together all she'll wear,
with kindness her perfumed esprit
that woos me as it fills the air.
Her beauty comes not from a shelf
nor from a product humans made,
but deep within her winsome self -
a loveliness that does not fade.
Written 22 June 2022
Despondent, she stares at the mirror,
hoping to see the girl of her youth.
And yet, aging has weathered her skin,
and the sun's harsh light confirms the truth.
Wrinkles, masked by a coat of makeup,
she touches up, whatever's peeling.
And the false face staring back at her
reflects the distress she is feeling.
A dab of powder fills in crow's feet,
a rosy rouge brings her cheekbones back.
And the bags under her eyes get smoothed,
while mascara lashes are brushed black.
Red lips complete the porcelain doll,
while all her blemishes disappear.
And once more, she transforms her image;
hiding years behind a thin veneer.