Long Scintilla Poems
Long Scintilla Poems. Below are the most popular long Scintilla by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scintilla poems by poem length and keyword.
If today were in fact the end of days
We'd face it with no scintilla of anxiety or sadness
because our fate is in God's hands
I'd leave absolutely nothing unsaid
between us; no time would be wasted...
morosely waiting until the day fades
into nothingness at the stroke of midnight
I'd kiss you a thousand times, if not more
and I'll never leave your sight
until the very end, my sweet.
We'd seize the day; fireflies in the night sky
We'd take plenary advantage
of the spectacular here and now
and make each moment glitter like gold.
Oh, what fun we'll have, while it lasts
We'd throw a mammoth going-out party
With our near and dear ones; a party to end
all parties. I'd take solace in the thought that
we'd be together when the day
quietly fizzles out like a whisper in the wind
The love I have for you would grow
exponentially, and explode
like a stick of dynamite, better yet, a bomb
We'd lie on the bed of roses I made just for you
and gaze upon the countless stars in the sky...
for the very last time! We'd sing
and dance under the harvest moon. If separated
by an ocean, i'd somehow magically make it
back to you, in the nick of time
so help me God
Submitted for...
STRAND SELECT 10,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest(Winner: 2nd Place)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 01/12/2020
"What If There Was No Tomorrow" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One (Winner: 2nd Place)
Date written and submitted: 08/21/2019
I’ve started looking into your soul
now don’t be scared
I mean no harm, just let me stare
at your majestic face
For sure I see pimples and mascara
yet something in your eyes
Perhaps hidden in your bearded-bush
a much younger man
And drab strands of hair hanging lower
as you hang your head
Under your hat you resemble your dad
whose gone to heaven
Behind those taped up glasses, old and cracked
resides a little girl of fifty-five
I’ve started looking into your soul
a bandaid to tear off
a little at a time through the revelation of years
through laughter and tears
Perhaps talk of religion as you see it, I hear
a heart waxing and waning
like the moon appearing and hiding behind clouds
a forest of fog and dark mirrors
Sometimes I catch a scintilla of softness and strength
like a drink of water after harsh sun
and for a moment we bond and become one in spirit
I’ve started looking into your soul
don’t
be
afraid
I mean no harm
perhaps
we
will
be friends after a while
3/6/2018
Who is the greatest from the land of the other hand…
The pure top draw..southpaw....
Lara or Spice Isle style.. guile and
Wiles of Kumar Sangakarra..
Who wouldn’t hanker in their seats
Various vicarious treats..Sri Lanka’s number one ranker..
Fancy dan talisman.. Tamil Totem of elan..
Run spanker & banker.
His unctuous umami like a sumptuous curry
Even at the end…flurry of runs in a hurry for Surrey…
Hands so soft….held aloft…the head so still…combined with
Unique refined technique echoes the past…remembers
Classical embers of the text and record book cast..
Plays the ball so God damn late…almost tardy…
Trait of a hardy..true first rate great…
Another Sanga banga..all thriller not a scintilla of filler..
Larrups another clanger…elegant and decadent..
Like having a Concorde in your hangar..
Redolent of a sublime almost forgotten time..
His timber timbre.. the sweetest rhyme…
Record heaper…acid jazz pizzazz..flair run reaper..
Smooth..rare groove sweeper..
Well honed treacle toned soul
Top notch keeper..& to be fair
A lovely mop of hair..
One of the gilded golden generation of glittering constellation sensations..
As a lefty…no fibs…his nibs might get first dibs
Superfly guy playing or…sashaying to his own homegrown celestial sky high…
Written: August 07, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Within the depths of soliloquy,
A voice unfolds in a sempiternal plea,
Seeking solace in the scintilla of rhyme,
Guiding us through the corridors of time.
In surreptitious whispers, it speaks,
Through every word, a story leaks,
A wafture of emotions, raw and true,
Revealing secrets, hidden from view.
With every verse, it finds the wherewithal,
To heal the wounds, both vast and thrall,
To mend the fragments of a woebegone heart,
And bestow solace to those torn apart.
Yet, some may anathemize its power,
Dismiss it as mere words, fleeting and sour,
But in the hush of its aphonic grace,
Lies the strength to heal and embrace.
Whispers of the soul, they hold the key,
To unlock the chains that bind us free,
To transcend the boundaries of the mind,
And find sanctuary in the words we find.
In the soliloquy of our deepest sought,
The sempiternal whispers cannot be bought.
They are the scintilla of truth and light,
Guiding us through the darkest of nights.
With surreptitious grace, they dance,
Leaving behind a lasting trance,
A wafture of hope, love, and peace,
Easing the burdens that never cease.
Enea, at the Scottish Court
The critics claim that this is far the worst
of all the frescoes. Enea the star? No
inkling here. Can that be James the First?
And that’s the Clyde? It looks more like the Arno.
A spartan Stuart court? Or is it Bourbon?
Less Edinburgh in feel, and more Locarno.
Whoever saw Scots courtiers in turbans?
The ceiling is salubriously embossed,
more like the Vatican of sainted Urban!
Perhaps Enea’s Latin can’t be glossed,
for no-one’s listening, that much is certain.
One wonders what the marble columns cost.
And wrapped in that red robe (looks like a curtain!),
he seems to lack all gusto, all scintilla.
For this he braved the Beauly and the Burton?
There’s nothing interesting in the villa.
Less Donatello, more like Damien Hirst.
It wasn’t worth Charybdis, much less Scylla.
Enea Receives the Laurel Crown
Not only is he with the Emperor:
he’s kneeling to receive the laurel crown.
His deeds will be preserved in tempora,
his poems printed, bound and handed down.
What more can man achieve in life than this?
While many live and love, and toil in vain,
Enea’s standing on the precipice:
rewarded for that fine, well-nurtured brain.
So why am I uneasy? Read the signs.
And eagle savages a hapless duck.
The building seems all wrong. Wrong size, wrong lines.
And what’s it meant to be? Are you not struck
to see the woman on the loggia, being raped?
Pandora’s Box is open. Hope’s escaped.
Form and Matter
It all comes down to this, don’t you agree?
The Court of Charlemagne, the Holy See –
there’s Thought and Thing: idea, reality.
We’re in the presence room, but some are free
to stroll the colonnade at liberty.
Unyielding marble throne, lapped by a sea
of flowing silk: that’s how it has to be.
Enea kneels between eternity
and actuality: the Papacy
against the Empire. Physicality
abuts against the realm of sophistry.
If I could paint
I would paint a kiss
between our lips
as your arms lift me slightly
to dawn in your eyes
If I could paint
I would paint my emotion
through mist on your window - pane
I would write my name
in hope you'd think of me
with each pitter-patter
of first autumn rain
If I could paint
I would paint a muse
who is never distant
Nor She a night mistress
But a muse which dwells
in your soul, mind and heart
A muse which lives in your shadow
which travels the distances
and is never apart
.
If I could paint
I would paint a bridge
between the river and I
I would paint our silhouettes
between scintilla stars
and a mid~ twilightt sky
If I could paint
I would paint this dark world
as beautiful as you
I'd splash my brush
in a palette of pastels
Of hues'early blossoms
which bloom sweet jasmine blues
Written: June 20, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Within the depths of an opulent lagoon,
Where the waters dance to a mellifluous tune,
A harbinger of joy, a scintilla of light,
Unfolds a tale of halcyon delight.
In this serene oasis, a haven of peace,
Where time metamorphoses and worries cease,
The lilt of laughter fills the air.
A pastiche of colors beyond compare.
As the sun paints the sky in hues of gold,
The lagoon's beauty, a story to be told,
A palimpsest of memories, etched in time,
Each ripple is a chapter-each whisper is a rhyme.
My delight soared dulcetly, like a bird in flight.
In the cynosure of bright stars and an auric sight.
You tease me so nicely. I love your flair -
the way you hold me and when you hold back!
I love your fingers moving through my hair.
Downward. . . the scintilla of a smack.
You know just where I like it! Leisurely
meandering along my body, you
are an elixir, pouring out on me.
My panacea, always you imbue
felicity in me with whispers of
those dulcet “nothings” falling on my ear.
How eloquent the language of your love
when your soft moans are all I need to hear.
Be naughty. I don’t mind it – night or day -
but never tease that you will go away!
Feb 5, 2018
for Edward McCall's "Eloquent banter; You tease me so nicely"
and now for Laura Loo's Your Favorite Poem Written in February Contest
Written: March 2nd, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wingbeats on warm whisper wavelength
wasteland, waves of wasabi writhe
with wilting, whimpering, witless wring
whirls and willows whimsically wave.
Emerald pride waves over meadows,
Venetian Barcarole flails and whizz
viridian desires dance onto dales,
Eurydice weeps lost love in auric tears
Dawn draws dwindle, damp dimples.
Of flickering flowers and floating stars
Orpheus, the poet in paint-stained palms
portrays the paradoxes in love,
a roar of zeal and salty air in a blue sky
love stings, even endless moons
In ablaze that seldom strikes
Elysium ethereal elixir of souls.
With such spongy, slippery strokes
soothing serenade in early spring
Thunder rumbles, but cannot shatter
love of Orpheus and Eurydice
Destiny is etched in their stride
as wingless wisps prose sang and swam
Moon loops conflate with wispy vowels
pride is a cornerstone of identity
egos hold a shield of protection
love embraces all they cherish
paired potency, pelt a pound planet.
Akin to operas, rehearsed by singers
their spoof spirals higher in stride
a syzygy of stars in a mellifluous oasis
nurturing nemesis crystals
soar in silky, springy ischemic swings
fetching felicity, as flurry fades
Ignore impulses, let time slip away
still in grip of quintessential propinquity
over a pyre, rainbow Ink swirls
with ethereal wingless, sanguine sighs,
sumptuous zeal stirs the lifeless,
springtide serenades sibyllic sweeps.
As wisteria, spring sequoia, and love slay
weave an aura in vow threads
once serendipity embraces karma
Scarlet moons bleed in a plum sky
still, sustains its sonorous scintilla
at the zenith of wistfulness, uncover bliss
loving endures the rumblings of thunder
hope in its darkest night, never fades
smoothly drifting on brisk wing beats
love is a fruit of tangerine tenacity
love lullaby ignited by stark infatuation.
whereas I, by chance, talking to myself, finding myself
alone, enclosed by four walls and a door, knock
to see, in the invisibility, with x-ray ability, not held,
if you dear reader, sitting by your nightlight, might
switch it on and find a word to speak silently
or out loud; your choice. the ones you borrow
from a native tongue, feeling
their incomprehensible weight,
stopping mid-sentence, to ponder if you are moved
in the slightest bit; I’m biting my lip in anticipation,
though I’ve no inkling that you're mulling over
my thoughts, my doubts, my innards, my all.
now, I, think of you, sitting by a scintilla of light,
moonlight marvels at the roundness of your lips
as you nearly sing your “o’s;” sonnets seem
sensual alongside the bed, though always grieving.
love is a dog, a walk in the woods, a lark.
leave me be. let me remember you as I long to.
don’t say goodbye, but leave my sighs on the table,
where you first met me, and I almost met you,
and you, dear reader, take back up with me,
though now there’s a familiarity between us,
lost in the shadows, amidst the stars
and you can nearly hear me breathing.