Long Runic Poems
Long Runic Poems. Below are the most popular long Runic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Runic poems by poem length and keyword.
She is a masterpiece of wild contradiction,
fuse blown by a wick, of litmus tongue in your senses-
her moods shifting chameleonic shades everything at once
in candle wax trick or residue residing nowhere.
Heart's firework pinwheel blown
by a wish everywhere
and summoned without lips service-
to neither Hades, Avalon nor Loch Ness, lore.
In her magic lies a silent non disclosure appeasment,
a benediction like a life preserver of electric feel.
Her trinkets are cursed idols, in a pool of profoundness laid- imply at your feet, dewly spilled.
She sheds jade droplets of faceted
watershed moments,
strings them like pearls
to loose your balance on your
precipitated emotion.
She is "in the field"- set of runged abominations-
of a fools notion.
Jade droplets of faceted conglomeration
bathed of precipitale- emotion-
swimming your head like electric eel.
She is a storm brewing inside a jewel,
vagabond bauble non descript versing of
evident residual haunting your soul to steal-
new horizon, taunting virgin territory, with infatuation, lightning.
Underwritten page of felt covertly, subtly everything hunting, seasoned overtly sensory heightened display.
Moraed morals, moreover-sustained
of overlay fonting the atmosphere
cover paged as she wears where she lays.
The sky, a distant dream in the ocean of her gaze,
Wind stripped bare in a pool of borrowed
rhymes swimming your head in amaze
as we scramble for the right words to parlay
in her charms way.
In her voice lies a silent romance
leaving more questions than answers in her wake,
as her moods shift, atelier 'steem-roller,
like runic winds
of intolerant display, mind, screen-controler.
Touchstones in a pool of profoundness,
sun ray sing song at hand after the reigns.
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
A foremost god in elder lore,
Whose face was changed from shore to shore,
Through tangled tales and weathered stone,
His oldest shape remains unknown.
Tacitus named him Mercury
In writings from the Roman years;
Wednesday bears old Woden’s name,
A northern spark in Odin’s flame.
Though ancient rites are lost from sight,
His worship fades in veils of night,
Yet when the elder kingdoms fell,
The Northmen heard his summons well.
A war-god clothed in storm and flame,
He guarded warriors, death, and fame;
With wolf and raven at his side,
He watched the slain where heroes died.
On Sleipnir’s eight swift legs he rode
Through cloud and wave, through frost and road;
The storm-wind streamed behind his mane
As worlds flew past like sparks of rain.
He knew the spells that bind and break,
The hidden paths that gods forsake;
He gave the skalds their fire and breath,
And sought the wisdom past all death.
One-eyed wanderer, grey and tall,
He heard the raven’s midnight call;
He paid one eye for wisdom’s well,
Where Mimir’s deepest waters dwell.
Then saw the worlds no mortal sees
While ravens rode the northern breeze;
His spear was bright beneath the rain,
His cloak swept dark across the plain.
I walk beneath the iron sky
With battle’s red wind rushing by;
My blade is bright, my purpose still,
I climb toward the final hill.
When shields are split and banners torn,
And oaths are raised beneath the horn,
I’ll take my place where brave souls dwell,
Among the fallen, fighting well.
For I shall meet you, Odin, there,
Beyond the smoke and midnight air;
Where fires burn and mead is poured,
And heroes feast beside their lord.
How do I acquire a place where I can forgive?
How can I stop blaming myself for my mistakes?
I can't recall the version of "Intrinsic", but it's conflictive,
None can quash them If you can't forgive rattlesnakes.
It's difficult to forgive wrongdoers who won't swage,
It's cruel to excuse inner suffering from a rapist's rage,
It's difficult to grace louts who have killed your family,
Spirits will not retaliate but can whip you clearly.
No, I'm not a saint; failure is not the same as forgiveness.,
That doesn't refer I must trust or favor the chorus,
He seems angel but he throws his seat through the window,
He is tiled with a shabby female tattoo on his elbow.
I felt vulgar, stupid, and useless,
Close to the leech and slimy worm, that's sageness,
Every smile contains a malicious chart, so I lack faith,
I endure on wobbly legs, wiping away tears and scathe.
How can I resist the urge to do things right?
Some people mind me a skeptic. My kids guess I'm bright,
In fact, they suppose I'm an incredible winner,
If they view suffering, it will improve my manner.
No one understands what I endure,
I am not in a position to reveal such rancor,
I'm tired of seeing and living a shabby life,
I wanted a widely used headline in some rife.
The tombs of our ancestors are everywhere,
Earth's soil is the body's dust, walk lento, and care,
The suffering of death is greater than the joy of birth,
O cooing doves bestow to the weeping, some mirth.
Some actions are held liable, but none are shrewd,
Every devout soul has a past, and every deceiver is lewd,
Who can you forgive if not the toughest opponent?
You are fully ungrown with this Atonement.
The blast radius of your grief can harm the soul,
What if the people around you are shown a rays hole?
What if you cling to someone else's roots to be injured?
It all begins with a runic visceral fear of the biohazard.
I select my destiny and discover myself,
Say farewell to my harsh youth with purity and pelf,
Today I saw the opposite of what you taught me,
I also forgive you for everything before I flee.
1st Place Contest Win.
Written: June 25, 2022
Forgiveness Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
The force is erupting another deified element.
A calm walkabout that's gathering the fully intent.
The realm you seek is forward down the left hand path.
To each his own, by this trickery of faith and holy wrath.
Devoured by the misunderstanding, and directed by the multiple guises.
Cast down beside the blind, by a God whom's craft demoralizes.
Ready to be the unforgotten besides the unholy moral compass is always true.
As the universe is constantly watching, of which belief do you truly ensue?
Can it be possible that it's all been a climatic of a fully misinformed course?
With an open mind to believe, you must abandon to completely question it's source.
By my name is a casting of a runic force.
Bludgeoned by blunt words, provoked with their prayers, another exorcised possession.
Consider the exorcism to be the invoking of demons directly into human form from a demonic dimension.
Clutter of echoing chirpings up my sylvan irreverent tune
detaching reckless realities carefully sewn above a sovereign moon
Velvet violin tunes arose to a bittersweet string of polyester prattle sorrows
1 2 3 4 5
afar wraith paths of escape
Timelessly stretching through thicket aroused breaths aloof stones
soft spoken soughing of a enigma fauna painted into woodland bones
Myrth crystal waves lost on the ledge of sequel crayons of tattle tomorrows
6 7 8 9 10
I enter the way
Stargazing Ichiko's hymns on the coddling abyssal of my reverie train
enter the arcane painted depths of my esoteric paint though celestial rains
Wine bonnets drunken on overdosed fabricated ebullient sunshine rays
11 12 13 14 15
I exit tolling doom
If a moon veiled aethereal heart would dare to venture runic gossamers
Exit hurricanes of eldritch swirls on a nostalgic chimerical polished casimire
Heathen tartaned nova deer in bountiful fruit baskets of wolves astray
16 17 18 19
entering celestial crypts
Tired realities howl through a seraphic talismanic engaging bracken shield
I see now what lies across verdant sunlight flickering Swiss Lyn orchard fields
Peach kisses upon a soft freckled hand through sibilant hushed vineyards
20 21 22 23 24 25
I remain
In the runic depths of time's pearl
and before
its emerald space implored upon
it's shore, frequency waves-a moredraws -forth.
A living tesseract??? stage, where mystery
doth lay- in homage for the one who would give
love a crystal place,
and to have endearing face to peer.
One of it's own,
Looping in a swooning of Seraphiic Queen,
as a cosmic puzzle where the stars did frolick
and sway in mounts, and lick at the milky way of her crowns.
Like a girl eating milk and honey-watching Pandoras brother find them in his adventurer way.
God's Chosen journeyed- through the purple void,
giving chagrinal mysteries - challenging that our souls shall employ.
The infinite tesseract, a shape unseen by
unfaithful eyes.
It is the realm of secrets, where all things convene
flowing one to another in a blessing of phi.
A box within a box, a portal to the unknown,
but yet known
as dreams merge with new placeholder
for reality to make home.
An infinite journey, a cosmic singularity,
like a child playing in the soils of
the sea before Family Supper Bell is called Motherly.
Where Sisters eye curiously, mischieviously,
unspeakably.
Where visions- journey through unseen
worlds and truths are shown intrinsically-beckoning,
a compiling analogy unfurled.
Like a magic carpet and geniic lamp
and a rub rolled into one and all.
A mathematical beauty in geometric form,
of the living in praise and
the authority to be come.
The to for the people of the Ancient of Days.
Unlocking the secrets of the universe-
given spirit and living bone.
Where Man is given crossroads,
enigmas, deja vu
and an ultradimensional throne.
To rule the adventure through,
but not alone.
Someone gently rolls me over
Onto this white slab, belly down
And I wait ... like forever
Or at least it seems like forever, anyway
Above me is a mirror,
So, I turn my head and strain to see it -
In seeing Runic inscriptions there on my backside,
I try to read them but can't ...
I can't interpret their meaning
Then, this drill of light
Comes and hovers over me.
I flip like a fish out of water
And I'm blinded out of my body
I can remember it now -
I fell into a deep
Strange awareness
That I was being abducted by aliens
Or was coming to in the middle of surgery
I was exposed, naked, and scared out of my wits -
That's when I began to write
And I haven't stopped since ...
I discovered the mystery
Of her painted runic stone
Immediately upon opening
The dainty envelope
She'd so thoughtfully sealed
With a Valentine sticker.
With comforting impact
It dropped unexpectedly
Into my conveniently located hand.
(Conveniently unexpected
And unexpectedly located,
With immediate and comforting impact.)
And in the moment of discovery,
I recalled the perfect sweetness
Of her Cheshire smile
As she stood self-confidently
On the sidewalk of the thoroughfare,
Like a danger girl who had captured
A spy boy's complete attention
With effortless persuasion.
That’s typical of her.
Does her mojo ever sleep?
I'll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom;
I'll love you till the clover has lost its perfume.
I'll love you till the poets run out of rhyme,
Until the twelfth of never and that's a long, long time.
Twelfth of Never
Songwriters: Jerry Livingston / Paul Webster
A love song that blooms with perfume and rhyme,
Even when bluebells, clover and poets run out of time.
Words, may we never forbear their cleverness.
Let us birth verses until the twelfth of neverness.
It’s been, and it shall be, a long, long time of runic
and a Poe-, Shakespeare- and Plath- worn tunic.
Ever-creating from Adam to now, and past these days.
Love is at our fingertips, working a well-begotten phrase.
10/28/2022