Long Ruins Poems
Long Ruins Poems. Below are the most popular long Ruins by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ruins poems by poem length and keyword.
In the frozen tundra, marvelous drugs;
no one can reproduce.
Rub raw your eyes, soar high, shiver.
For your frozen blue eyes,
only, in the loneliness of snow and ice.
Descriptions beyond sight, touch,
as if you’re in an ethereal illumination.
The dogs howl and hoof
but they do not hold up as witnesses.
This thingamajig
frazzles
frightens
excites
shocks
chills
warms
brings joy
You can never find this thingamabob;
it finds you and ruins you.
Drink ruins you; you see strange things.
But this is an elixir; a spectral something
that was formed out in the midnight sun.
Capricious as the wind, sifting like
dessert sand, almost certainly invented
by time itself, set apart for isolated
journeys of one, or more (if you count
the dogs). Silent witnesses are just
as curious, but have no human voice.
Like a living branch, was it cut off
from the rest, caught off guard; reformed?
Perhaps, it is good and evil, at best;
it can do tricks (ask the dogs).
Remember, the saying, ‘Make like a tree,
and leave…”
This whatchamacallit, took the human at his word.
Romania's Last Ball
We have become tenants in our own country like shadows without border or name,
Our flour yields nothing and the bread no longer rises from the flame,
Foreign interests grind us down like a worm inside the core of a ripe apple bright,
And the destiny of our people has been broken... and no one took up its fight.
The Phanariots lead us with hands of wax and with oaths that are easily swapped,
They change their faith like neckties and their forgotten promises are dropped,
Humbly we apologize that they have not tormented us enough in this short life,
And they teach betrayal to the young... with a sweet voice... and with a deaf and hollow knife.
We no longer have factories and we no longer have land and we no longer have a voice,
We speak our own language in another tongue and words are no longer our choice,
Only the beautiful shame of a people preparing itself for exile and for wandering,
And even the graves are packing up for the road... in this agony and squandering.
Mad poet what words do you still mutter about a people that will not yield,
When we have become beggars and servants on our own native field,
The living and the dead mixed together ready to emigrate at the break of day,
A de-Romanianized Romania... counting its children... who no longer want to stay.
The fatal bell is heard on the evening of the last ball and the final night,
Times of fury and of hailstorms are coming down on all our children's sight,
The high and mighty dance upon our ruins in their cold and festive wear,
And we watch as our country... is sold... and lost... and disappears into the air.
Safe travels people lost on a bet we never knew that we were making and giving,
Farewell mother country... farewell... a word we speak but cannot believe we are living,
Perhaps tomorrow there will be emptiness and all of us will leave with broken hearts to roam,
Romania... the last ball... and the orchestra... keeps playing... keeps playing... far from home.
The old dirt path that led to home
Familiar surroundings all overgrown
The home, now a shell of what was once
The picket fence in disrepair
Lay where it had fallen, needing care
A gate that welcomed family and friends
Lying on the ground, rusted hinges unable to hold
Lift the gate and place back in place
Touching the gate, strange feelings emerged
The feeling when old friends meet once again
Stand and stare, tears appeared
Children once swung on the gate
Sat on the ground and exchanged stories
Talking to the gate as old friends would
If seen by others they would shake their heads
Lonely and sad, their thoughts as they journeyed
Approach where once stood a magnificent front door
Walked into the ruins as done many times before
Looked around searching for clues
When did all this destruction take place?
No answer, just creaks and groans
I hear you, I hear you, my friends of old
A gentle breeze appeared as if called
Sitting once more, back leaning against a wall
Drained of memories of long ago.
In a twilight sculpted from granite, where stars shake off like autumn leaves,
I wander through the labyrinth of my mind, lost among the ruins of thoughts.
My love for life is but a pale flame, flickering against the winds of time,
And writing becomes my armor, gleaming in the dark like a lighthouse in the night.
I write to survive, each word is the blood coursing through my veins,
Each letter a step on an unknown path, each sentence deepening the mystery.
I strive to write well, to avoid the madness of spewing nonsense like a politician,
In a world where masks slip, revealing truths that sink into obscurity.
To the old banality, "Eat or die," I add "Eat and write or die,"
Writing is my act of worship, an altar built of paper and ink.
A veneration for creatures, landscapes, ideas that inspire and uplift me,
To commemorate the dead, to create new women to love, to cherish.
For I have always been a seeker, a dreamer, a contemplator of seeking and dreaming;
And who can say that such a nature does not open latent eyes, sensitive
To unimagined worlds, to unforeseen orders of being,
Where souls meet at the edge of the abyss, weaving webs of mystic melancholy.
In this stream of consciousness, I lose myself and find myself anew,
Thoughts flow like subterranean rivers, tumultuous and deep.
Each word a stone cast in water, with ripples widening,
Reaching forgotten shores, where dreams extinguish and revive in silence.
I write to be, to become, to understand,
I write to love, to weep, to laugh,
In a world that unravels and remakes itself,
In a world that breathes through every word born of mystic melancholy.
Surging storm of turmoil splitting apart the falling sky
blows with blasting fury through the splintered mind
the flaring wrath burns like the blazing badland bush
searing the disgruntled soul to a stack of anguished ash.
The sky would be seamless again and construct the clouds
adrift with the revived ruins rising from the halcyon horizon
dissolving in the melancholic psyche making pearls of dew
adorning the meadow of mind free from the mist of sorrow.
In the gust of freedom the clumps of cloud float away far
as the shining stars glow bright in the moonlit silken sky
the satin surf of stardust wafts in the rapturous radiant air
making in my mind aurora of astral ambiance of tranquility.
Across the topography of soul the stream of jubilation flows
saturating my parched essence and whispering, I live my life
as my own, drinking always the ambrosia of joy without hiatus
and sail on the wind of rhapsody to the beguiled bay of bliss.
February 11, 2021
Contest (N-A) : Joy Continuum
May 4, 2021
Contest : Final 2021 N-A Choice 3
Sponsor : William Kekaula
She is not a supernatural
All she is - a being of morals
She is not invinscible
Yet, She can be divisible
A shed light in a darkened room
An inspiration to a person in doom
A transformer in many things
A quiet fighter in anything
A sister she can be
A friend she can be
A mother she can become
A baby she can come
A casual smile she can release
Giving someone a sudden bliss
When tear pours and uncease
It weakens or ruins anyone's peace
Indeed, she is a supergirl
On whole wide world at twirl
Independently ravaging
Graciously empowering
by: olive_eloi
10:09am
01/15/2014
CONTEST: any poem # 20 Free Poetry
SPONSOR: Poet Destroyer A
6TH PLACE
----+-----------------»»»»
They have become a silent story
A story written on stones and bricks
And each brick narrates a different story
Touch them, run your hand they will come alive
and speak to you of passion, betrayal, envy,
compassion, deceit, and death,
everything that they went through
Sometimes I feel they were built as ruins
and all the grandeur was added to them
only to fall off with time to reveal once again
the alluring perennial beauty.
They resembles woman whose true essence lies underneath
the layers and layers that covers her true self.
This silence has many stories to reveal ………Silence Please.
In the sunshine days you walk the sated life
In dream-paved scented path of rose garden
Along the trail of flitting butterfly you chase
The lattice of joy afloat in the charmed mind.
When the night falls with shroud of despair
The surging storm shatters your somber sky
The enchanting stars disappear behind cloud
In trying times you desire to see rays of hope.
You crumble as a wreck in melancholic ruins
Stow the debris of life in depth of depression
Desolation enwraps you with pall of dejection
Search vainly in grim darkness for the lost soul.
I will kindle for you a candle with divine glow
It will shine like full moon in your sky bright
You will rise from the debris as a new entity
In dismal dark night when I will be your light.
___________________
March 11, 2022
Contest : Being A Light To Others
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Proper Usage of Space
----------------------------
The Romans primarily used boxwood
(buxus) to make woodwind instruments
like the tibia (a double-reed pipe)
But the Amitheaters were often
The term for using shrubs, hedges,
and trees to create a theater or
amphitheater structure in
a landscape is a sylvan theater
The Hawthorn Tree were used.
The hawthorn Tree or
(Crataegus monogyna)
could be found along streams,
pastures, forest edges,
and urban streets..........
Italian Stone Pine (Pinus pinea)
and the Mediterranean Cypress
(Cupressus sempervirens)
The soaring, dramatic
profiles of specific
conifers are universally
recognized for
framing ancient ruin
During the Roman Empire,
the staging of amphitheater events
—such as gladiatorial hunts
(venationes) or
mythological reenactments—
frequently required
temporary landscaping
-------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------Fig, Elm, Pear, and Olive Trees--------------------
-------------- For hundreds of years, the dirt and debris inside
the arches and upper tiers of the Colosseum sprouted dense
orchards and gardens. Local citizens even paid fees to graze
sheep and harvest hay directly from the structural ruins. -------
----------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The Colosseum.------------
While close, you appear distant in the mirror of my dreams,
Living nearby, whole neighborhood seems absent in my heart,
The image of love is fearful and uncertain in core,
The sky filled with dark rainy clouds seems restless in my heart.
Seeking companionship in the vast oasis of love,
Distant mirages dance in lonely desert of my heart,
Desiring to share pain, there is a yearning in our moods,
Yet, no one listens to these desires of desolate heart.
The relationships formed in numerous moments in life,
Shatter within the walls of discord of my perplexed heart.
Golden dreams, palaces gleam, jewels abound, and love divine,
The palaces transform into ruins, dreams shattered in my heart.
Loneliness echoes in this haunting unfamiliar world,
Unselfish virtue is rarely found in this realm of heart.
The price of affection cannot be compared with jewels,
Lost love resonates in the gardens of hope of my heart.