Long Rubicund Poems
Long Rubicund Poems. Below are the most popular long Rubicund by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rubicund poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: August 14, 2025, for Contest Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
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I writhed in the womb of a necrotic hush,
a stygian silence where barghests lurk—
My slack-jawed soul, sodden with oblivion lull,
clanged against the obelisk of despair.
The wound, a molten mouth of aurora,
sizzled with sacred suction—
a fipple of fire, ineffable and fecund,
where pestilence pirouetted with puissance.
I danced—yes, I danced—
in the desiccation of my demise,
a gavotte of soulfulness,
My blood is a rubicund aria of rapture.
Alabaster bones bore the torque of truth,
Each fracture is a triptych of ephemera and flame.
I was a poltergeist of my former self,
grappling through the noosphere multivocal maze.
The stench of bygone hexes clung to lava rock,
But I, stalwart and sinewed with mettle.
careened past the clamor of puerile pabulum,
past the gossamer glamor of grief.
I was broken—yes—
but bold enough to resuscitate,
to regale the necromancy of my rebirth,
to supplant sorrow with the sacred sizzle of self.
Now I stand, an empyrean echo,
a veridical vestige of velvet versatility—
my heart, a burnished niche of noble hope,
My spirit resembles a smooth, celestial sunset.
Let the world scrutinize my scars,
They are not grotesque—they are garrulous.
They speak in tongues of alchemy and amaranthine ache,
a quixotic quiddity, a quintessence of comeback.
Perhaps the "We" in a poem about young "America" can thread the plural pronoun
into a universal tapestry:
"We" seek the Sunrise- fiery golden streams, threads of expectancy, not simply of hope. Rarely realized.
Almost always recognized,
for we read, we write; we sing, we praise
the "American Dream". Or God(s).
"We" are the intricacies of Belief.
Of Choice(s). Of a trajectory of fading footprints: "We" take our first steps every "Dawn".
"We" are souls who will vanish unless carved into stone. Or become a portrait on a wall, still viewing the World.
Or our words can be bound-a bandaged sky that allows a Star's light to sift through. And we can see a violet-onyx canvas that beckons
with the glisten ofsterling pinpricks
when the sky is dark. For this part of the tapestry: the color is of a petal dipped
into a Harvest palette, blended into a flower of any pigment ever created by Nature, or by Science; a bloom that will turn to the Sun,
that will fold into itself to rest, every twilight.
A tapestry of effulgence: rainbow
to moonbow; radiation to the splitting
of the photon.
The final seams are tat to drape a veil,
many veils, to keep secret our true
countenance;
to create the facade that bouys
while "we" drift..
towards another Sunset..
rubicund golddust that spatters light;
a shiny yolk that bleeds..a burst clot.
Written: August 17, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Rob Carmack - Placed 2nd in the contest
Quote“Let there be no boundaries. When you lose all sense of self, the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish. Lose yourself completely, return to the root of the root of your own soul” - By Rumi
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I sipped from the calyx of core delight,
a dusky elixir steeped in dopamine’s
effervescent whisper—
and the world, erstwhile mundane,
became a chatoyant tapestry
of evanescent truths.
The walls sighed slightly.
Not in the metaphor arena—
They throbbed, aquiver,
With a sapphire auric touch,
each brick is a doppelgänger.
of some long-lost self.
My limbs, once velvety,
turned to lissome vines
waltzing through the horizon
of lush lagoon reverie.
I was hungry for meaning.
but found it a chorus of voices,
amorphous, shapeless,
a palimpsest of pastiche and prophecy.
Time fractured—
a pavonine shimmering
spilled across the sphere of memory.
I beheld my joy,
blithely besieged
by the clamor of disorder,
and still, it twirled.
with emulous passion
in the cottage of my marrow.
Epiphany hard-won
not as a blaring trumpet,
but as an aphonic balm—
a murmurous susurrus
in the riparian streams
of my noetic flesh
I was not ontic, but rather an iconoclast.
I was both an iconoclast and dear.
both amort and zoetic,
a rubicund speck
in the celestial glow
The collective noosphere surrounds it.
The mind—
that winding maze—
offered no panacea,
only a twist of insight
and its evanescent brightness.
I beheld my nemesis.
in the mirror’s moiety:
a charming crone,
disheveled and tenderly smiling,
Her gaze was soft with weariness.
Her voice was gentle and silent.
And I understood—
Awareness is winnowing.
a desultory dalliance
with the unutterable.
To behold is to dissemble.
To feel is to effloresce.
I emerged.
not healed,
but imbued—
a scintilla of the sumptuous,
a fleeting felicity
in the halcyon hush
of the waking world.
Written: September 2nd, 2025, for Contest Sponsored By Rob Carmack
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You touched me with a selfish grace—
a twist of tenderness,
a lover’s rage wrapped in rubicund silk.
We were prolific in our undoing,
a clamor of glamor and grit,
gargling truth through voracious nights
while Asteria watched,
her eyes full of truthful stars.
I spat your name into the noosphere,
where dreams go to die or be reborn.
You were my doppelgänger ache,
my endogenous flame,
the replica of every archetype
I tried to reject.
We danced in the penumbra of joy,
each step a pastiche of pulchritude and pain.
You, emulous in your appetency,
me, entranced with the miraculous ache
of wanting more than the sum of us.
I tried to winnow wisdom
from the sage’s vade mecum,
but found only flapdoodle and nephrology—
diagnoses of hearts too full to beat clean.
We were consanguineous in our chaos,
a fulgent maelstrom of want and war.
You regaled me with your Icarian truths,
then shattered our quietude
with a jussive whisper.
I grokked your slipshod love,
your generous lies,
your sylphlike exits.
Now I sojourn in the aftermath,
a flaneur of our layered past,
resiling from the squalor of memory
with the pertinacity of a yokel
who believes even nonsense
can be fertile.
Joy becomes the reward—
not of peace,
but of surviving the twist,
the grabble,
the glamor,
the grief.
I await with great excitement the arrival of a Super Moon
Ascending in the western sky a spherical rubicund ethereal balloon
Appearing so much larger as she rises close to earth
A beautiful pregnant lady who is waiting to give birth
I gaze at her for hours; I am spellbound; I am rapt
As she draws me up beside her I am happy to be trapped
There is something mesmerizing, that she radiates to earth
Her circumference daily shrinking; her magnitude, her girth
I awaken whilst the skies are black before the crack of dawn
Praying for a cloudless night, or I will feel so woebegone
Bewitching hour fast approaching; eclipse begins concealment
For to witness this phenomenon leads to absolute fulfilment
An image truly out of this world and clearly unsurpassed
So please ensure a clear black sky, no snow or rain or overcast
19th January 2019
Standard Contest 163
Sponsor: Brian Strand
1st PLACE
(A Chain Verse)
'Tis a special night
Night of the blood moon
Moon's shimmering light
Light so softly strewn
Strewn across the lawn
Lawn shines crimson now
Now, that's why I'm drawn
Drawn to darkened brow
Brow of the hills glows
Glows erubescent
Erubescent pose
Pose that's pearlescent
Pearlescent blushing
Blushing round moon face
Face with joy gushing
Gushing with good grace
Grace rubicund pours
Pours on the hushed earth
Earth and all its shores
Shores swell with moon's mirth
Mirth of the moonbeams
Moonbeams' ruddy reach
Reach my pleasant dreams
Dreams that all bounds breach
Breach my world, red moon
Red moon rising slow
Slow my heartbeat's tune
Tune of carmine glow
Have you ever noticed how
raunchy our children can smell?
Like the stench that arises
from, say, a rotting seashell.
It's true; cohabitation
can impose a certain stink.
But family ignores it,
despite what others might think.
Sometimes a polite request
is personal and discreet.
And other times, dad might yell,
for God's sake, go wash your feet.
Baths are most often paid for
when odors can't be ignored.
Perhaps you'll offer a toy
or some treat as a reward.
When they sit on an incline,
foul gasses tend to leak out.
And with a rubicund blush,
they'll blame the dog, no doubt.
We have learned to tolerate
most odors floating around.
But those silent, deadly farts
are the grossest smell, hands down.
(Quatrain)
3/5/2015
No rooster crowed the tenebrous morning
I woke to somber skies aflame.
As dawn rose across a crimson horizon,
a firestorm blazed from a golden core
and scarlet lava flowed above the plains.
Charred, were black mordant clouds.
Menancingly, they swept over my barn.
A rubicund threat; a hazard to the earth,
an inferno; a warning of ill-fated death.
Terror filled me as fire encroached,
knowing I would become a torch,
kindled when scorching embers approached
to ignite me, rendering a fight for life futile.
Laughter heard as I became ribbons of smoke.
Soon, my ashes would be airborne,
and all that would remain of me would be
carried on the whim of the wayward wind.
An ethical poem
A big crow and a sparrow which had painted itself
in the colour of a big bird to look masterful became friends
Both suffered from a bombastic belief they could
take on the elderly eagle and its brood.
A virtuoso war a million other birds killed who only happened
to be flying on peaceful errands.
The Sahara became rubicund from a distance looked like a carpet
for kings and potentates.
From Eastern states, vultures came to feed and defend
to get the big crow and the preening sparrow off their territory.
The crow flew home, the sparrow took a bath to look common.
It did not help the sparrow it had done crow´s bidding
was shunned and had to fly from suburban gardens to another
and sleepless sit under a bush.
An ethical poem
A big crow and a sparrow that had painted itself
In the colour of a big bird to look masterful, they became friends
Both suffered from a bombastic belief that they could
Take on the elderly eagle and its brood.
A virtuoso war, a million other birds killed, who only happened
to be flying on peaceful errands.
The Sahara became rubicund from a distance, looking like a carpet
for kings and potentates.
From Eastern states, vultures came to feed and defend
to get the big crow and the preening sparrow off their territory.
The crow flew home, and the sparrow took a bath to look common.
It did not help the sparrow; it had done the crow´s bidding,
was shunned, and had to fly from suburban gardens to another
and sleepless sit under a bush.