Long Rumi Poems
Long Rumi Poems. Below are the most popular long Rumi by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rumi poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: July 14, 2025, for a contest sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens." Rumi
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Even in August, trees forfeit their leaves,
Fallen castoffs clutter the curves and eaves.
While lovers stroll, I mourn such a dove—
In the heat of July, blooms a flamed love.
The heat-wave conjured a deceptive fall —
Misleading trees in face of urban sprawl.
You swept in my life such a torrid wave —
Sparkling woos and skin slip whispered a rave.
I am an ornate leaf clinging with grace,
Inhaling your core, as life rushes pace.
My world spun near you, my radiant star—
In calm, I found both balm and a fierce scar.
Tears fall as I search dearly for your face,
Your eyes, a mysterious blue in space.
The swing of your arms resonates through —
I sense you in each angle and each view.
I breathe you as I roam through the city,
A ghost croons as the world hums a ditty.
I stand near you, my phone in my pocket —
Deaf, waiting for a voice to unlock it.
Sleep evades me, and the window ajar,
A fan spins warm breeze in the dusky air —
I feel vexed deep down in my inner core,
A limp leaf drags me off to deplore.
It is not in my hands to deny.
That we are embroiled in a futile fight.
I will depart without saying goodbye —
When tomorrow's sun sheds truth in light.
"You are a volume in the book. A mirror to the power that created the universe. Whatever you want, ask it of yourself. Whatever you’re looking for can only be found inside of you."
- Rumi
It’s written about you,
Someone sees and has a clue,
The sacred book opens the door to light,
This pierces through the night.
Go past the troubles that find their way to your room,
Beyond you is a land of bloom,
Ask what you desire,
Let the sacred truths deeply inspire.
Hope is like blooming meadows,
It lifts the soul out of the shadows,
Elucidate those wondrous dreams on the inside,
Let it be chauffeured by dawn on the outside.
Walk on the bright side of life,
It’s a door out of strife,
We’re vessels of grace,
Faith is the shoe’s lace.
Written: April 29, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
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"Quote: True beauty is a ray that springs from the sacred depths of the soul, and illuminates the body, just as life springs from the kernel of a stone and gives colour and scent to a flower. By Rumi"
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The springtime voice moves daintily in the air,
A silver sigh like dawnlight through the trees,
That wakes earth from winter's silent prayer.
It lures the buds with dazzling, perplexed breeze,
A mystic murmur, attractive as a rhyme,
that wanders down the meadows, talking to the bees.
Each seed now stirs, as though it recalls time—
a sleeping spark beneath the melting loam,
standing like hope in some forgotten clime
The hills grow warm; wandering winds bring home
The flocks of petals, gentle as falling snow,
Their hues light up every meadow and dome.
O Spirit Spring, whose translucent streams glow,
restore the earth—let every heartbeat grow.
"At the end of my life, with just one breath left, if you come then, I'll sit up and sing. That cannot now be said or written." Rumi
Lyrics of loneliness liberate in a lucid language,
lulling loveless librettos of lamenting loss.
In deadly depths of darkness,
deep desires dipped in despair,
misplace my marooned mind
in metaphorical mists of misconception.
Deserted in a domain of demons,
there's an aura of angst amongst absent angels.
When reality resembles a betrayal of butterflies,
withered wings wilt in wild winters without a wish.
In timeless tender tunes of tearful toxic torment,
nocturnal nightingales cry in a crepuscule chorus,
confessing caged crescendos in cryptic codes.
Sickness slithers in sinister silence,
as grinning Grim Reaper reveals his reflection.
My sojourner soul seeks a saviour's silhouette.
Who soothes in seraphic serenades of serenity.
To float in fate's fountain of featherless freedom.
In forbidden fields where fluorescent flowers flourish forever.
Her effervescent eyes exhale an elixir,
evoking an exotic, enticing, everlasting epiphany.
Enchanting in echoes of an Edenic enduring enigma.
Beneath bluebells, breathless and broken,
let me lay inside the lilacs of her amorphous aroma.
Her swan song closing chapter of my chronicles.
A halcyon harmony of heavenly harps,
guiding my gondola towards golden gates of grace.
3- “Let the beauty of what you love, be what you do. “ - Rumi
When the moon unfurls her magical wings,
and stars come out; sparkling silver
I listen to soothing songs within my nocturnal heart,
for unspoken thoughts, I let them rule.
I’m a believer, splashing colors of faith,
a poet, weaver of love and hope~
mental health advocate with an untamable quill,
painting hurting spheres with empathetic ink,
to cover their pain with honey warm verses.
I savor flavors of tender delicacies,
the world may frown upon this spiritual indulgence,
while ignorant to smudged skin of wounded silhouettes.
I let my voice be the tranquilizer for imperfect perfection,
although truth has no place in a society that lacks perception.
I’ll allow these phrases to speak to the blind,
preach kindness till we attain nirvana,
I have a poem in my soul, that shall only reach pages~
fluent in compassion, pain and trauma.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi
Upon my quest for quintessence.
I was an amorist,
positive in poetic philosophies.
Elysian and empyrean effigies,
enlightened in an ephemeral existence.
Life a fragile garland
festooned with a frangipani fragrance,
meandered in meadows of melodies,
a mouthpiece to a frivolous flute
but gone are lucent lusory lullabies.
I turned to the ballad of birds.
Dulcet desires dreamed of diamond drops,
dulcifluous, dulciloquent and diaphanous.
Delusions led to an interpretation of illicit illusions.
I became a metaphor for afflicted adjectives.
Mimesis mind became brittle and barren,
aphonic and amort - a crestfallen conscious.
A wild wallflower in an orchard of opal orchids,
slowly decomposing - in silent semblance
clocks won't stop for sojourners of the soul..
I searched for footprints left behind,
upon porcelain seraphic shores,
but knavish kismet lay lamenting,
disconsolate upon a distant island,
manifesting murmurations of a
maleficent maelstrom monsoon.
My life was once a
razzmatazz of reflections
gold, ivory and bronze,
but now silver sighs slither,
releasing a soft susurrus,
as once sapphire sylphlike skies are
now vermillion and violet visions.
Haematic horizons close the gates to heaven,
yet in my ruins, I know there is fortune,
as I polish my mirror of misfortune,
hoping it glows in canorous colours.
Written: September 17, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: "Forgiveness is the fragrance flowers give when they are crushed". By Rumi
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Forgiveness is not dulcet or facile—
It is a desultory pilgrimage,
a diaphanous veil over bruised truths,
a furtive lilt in the throat of time.
It begins in the inglenook of ache,
where erstwhile wounds murmur in penumbra,
And ebullience feels as betrayal.
There, the soul must dissemble its pride,
imbue its scars with emollient grace.
The heart, once a halcyon lagoon,
now languors in imbroglio and languor,
its efflorescence buried beneath elision,
It's an effervescent hope, a vestigial moiety.
Yet forgiveness arrives, such as petrichor—
redolent, evocative, ephemeral.
It gambols through the gossamer dusk,
a fetching ripple in the future.
It is not a panacea, but a palimpsest,
a pastiche of pain and propinquity,
where even nemesis may become nectar,
and sorrowful echoes find serendipity.
Forgiveness is the elixir we resist,
the embrocation that stings before it soothes.
It asks for forbearance, not forgetting,
for love, not leisure, for lissome strength.
It is the ineffable act of inure—
to hold the harm, then allow it to pass.
A mellifluous undoing of the pyrrhic,
a sumptuous surrender to the soul’s own lilt.
So let it be your talisman,
your tinkling umbrella in the storm.
Forgiveness is not weakness—it is glamour,
the quintessential grace that makes us whole.
Written: July 29, 2025 for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "You Are not a drop in the ocean, you are the entire ocean in a drop." by Rumi
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the jungle breathes as a vast pulsating lung
thunder rumbles from its heart while mist swathes
as if the ground were a relic of lost commas
it waives itself with reptiles slinking through the scrub
leaves merge in a symphony of vibrant voices
while ferns unfurl as mirage slices through the sky
akin to cherished recollections rooted
birds come together in the canopy
creating a ladder of fluttering honor
feathers show rite and respond to the rain
no map can steer this place, no compass offers balm
the vines spin a web crafted by nature's bold hand
lush foliage fosters a furrowed field
with a flowing growth and decay
seagulls alone notice ancient occult beauty
moss cloaks a worn stone as wrinkles on a giant
the jungle swallows you not from hunger
but from necessity
this tale ties you to its timeless storyline
not as a hero but as an echo
Some swords regret that fatal stroke
but that remorse is a sweetness
that fattens the maggot,
only the raging survive.
Rumi said:
“You must dance in your own blood."
That kind of killer instinct
leads you out of the fire, into an oblivion
that polishes eyes.
If you have a ghost in your heart,
make love to it
for it rages for release.
The raging dead
have slaughtered themselves
upon a dark stage far from the light.
Don’t pity them,
they are mad with love now,
they are free to be beyond themselves.
Those who have come through
are set apart as scarecrows
in a field of sleeping dogs.
In the light of day, they light candles
until a dark smoke gutters into absence.
Don’t pray for those dead to themselves
pray for those who think they live.
Deep poetry has its own reality
Instrumental in setting the mind free
From the confinement of this mundane world
Transporting us to wondrous realms untold
It is manifested in Blake's poetry
Which uplifts the mind and sets it free
A heaven is seen in a wildflower
Eternity is viewed in an hour
Khayyam's moving finger writes on time's wall
Once written, there's no erasing at all
Rumi's beloved is a different kind
A manifestation of the divine
With Shelley's skylark and Keats nightingale
The music of their birdsong tells the tale
A world beyond what we normally see
The world of deep poetry's reality
REFERENCES:
1) Auguries of Innocence
- William Blake
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
2) The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
- Omar Khayyam
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
3) Oh Beloved
- Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Oh Beloved,
take me.
Liberate my soul.
Fill me with your love and
release me from the two worlds.
If I set my heart on anything but you
let fire burn me from inside.
Oh Beloved,
take away what I want.
Take away what I do.
Take away what I need.
Take away everything
that takes me from you.
4) To a Skylark
- Percy Byshe Shelley
5) Ode to a Nightingale
- John Keats
The above-stated poems reflect the world of deep poetry reality that I have mentioned.