Long Sculpted Poems
Long Sculpted Poems. Below are the most popular long Sculpted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sculpted poems by poem length and keyword.
After a long walk on the unknown road I stand awhile to look ahead,
see the dusk silently descend in the horizon with twilight gleam, and
then I look back through the hanging haze of obscurity, find the fading
faces recede behind the shroud of the silver dust in the memory I have
sculpted in my journey through the landscape of happy life to where
I am now at the near end of the road at the vague verge of nowhere.
The sapphire night is falling there with the stardust of hued dreams,
spreading on the mystique road shining with the patina of joy I follow
to go beyond the halcyon horizon to meet the new sun rising in my sky
with the lattice of heavenly colors unfurling a new day I traverse until
the spent golden sun sets to rise again from the pile of time amassed
with the cyclic layers of days and nights where I feel a flower called soul
open the petals of divinity as the essence of existence that gradually
unfolds its pristine beauty with the splendored grace of God, and I wait
for the ordained time when I will hear in the sigh of the wilting flower
the inevitable call of the auburn soil of the barren ground in the cold
night. As I walk the last mile of my fulfilled journey on the fading path
I don’t know when the ordained beckon will come for me to go to His
blissful realm, and while my tired eyes close every night I dedicate the
colors of my devout flower and the gleam of my dedicated twilight to
Him, and when I wake up in the sunny morning of promise I thank Him
for the gracious gift of another new day
as flower within
drenched in hues of divine bliss…
shine with god’s blessings
______________
February 7, 2023
Contest : It Means A Lot To Me
Sponsored by : Regina McIntosh
The darkness accepts the awakening of a new day over the eastern rim of the valley floor.
The distant highlands sculpted by nature’s wind and ancient ice accept this sun ’s morning’s gift of bright glistening golden crowns along their uppermost edges, as the lower masses blanket themselves in shades of soft blue mist.
Sheared cliffs stand guard as sentries protecting all that lives on the valley floor.
A meadow bounded by an emerald green forest that has given perch to the midnight stars for a thousand of years awaits the first ray of warmth upon its branches where a mountain jay trumpets with joy.
Given this moment of tranquility, my soul returns to its resting place_ concealed by time, laid to rest by my brothers the Miwoks of the Yosemite; my valley for evermore.
Peter (my bf) and I are at Heraclee beach for the weekend.
It’s a little sliver of heaven, about 11 miles south of Saint Tropez.
It’s too early in the season to swim - being breezy and 72°f -
but it’s still the beach. I’m a neophyte beach bum,
but I’m willing and eager to learn.
I’m valuable even if I’m not being productive [I self-affirm].
something poetic-ish..
The sun’s a drowsy tyrant, not yet willing to unforgivingly scorch.
The beach is like glistening sugar, the sand still cool enough to walk, rogue west winds occasionally whip it to an ankle stinging sandpaper.
Majestic umbrella pines are dancing the hula. The shrub-like understory is dominated by drought-tolerant lavenders and rosemary that dense the air with perfume which complements the mediterranean brine.
There’s laughter, off somewhere, like wind-chimes playing clear, just above the ever-roiling sound of the surf. Birds are everywhere, gulls walk around like they’re bored, cory float on air, like kites and petrels skim against the wind, centimeters above choppy waves.
The beach isn’t crowded - French kids are still in school - but a few hardy, oiled, bronzed and sculpted bodies are sprawled on the pristine sand, like offerings to the god of leisure.
..
Our hotel has its own private cove, with adirondack wooden lounges under yellow parasols. Pastel blue-vested wait-staffers circle, on the quarter-hour, eager to please.
“Deux (two) American Martinis, S'il te plaît! (please),” I ask, expectantly.
It’s a nude beach, but Peter got an alarmed look when I joked I might go topless. “Annick (my older sister) always goes topless,” I informed him.
“I’d like to see that,” he’d said, and when I gave him a raised eyebrow, he amended, “That came out wrong.”
.
.
songs for this..
Summer of Our Love by Triangle Sun
That life by Unknown Mortal Orchestra
The kiss of Venus by Dominic Fike, Paul McCartney
Under the dome of nights shining like a sea of falling stars,
The fruits of summer pour out their fragrant burden in a waltz of dreams,
The aroma of encounters with you, my love, like an elixir of hidden gods,
Intoxicates my senses and carries me on wings of time and longing.
Your body, a sanctuary of summer, sculpted in graceful feline forms,
Where the nectar of eternity flows gently over your warm marble skin,
From the cup of pleasure, I sip metaphors woven from glances and whispers,
In the field of your heart, I paint my love with shades of eternity.
A mist of longing settles on your thigh like a curtain of sapphires,
Coloring the nights with bittersweet kisses, a song of the stars,
When your being, like a diaphanous dream, comes to life and vibrates under my hand,
And the flames of desire rewrite our stories on the endless sky.
From your summer, my love, I build a castle of words and unknown longings,
With foundations of dreams and walls of secret thoughts, undefeated by time,
I rewrite you at each sunrise, with the first breath of morning,
When the wind sings to me ballads of wandering birds and memories.
Poems are born from the tender touch of my palm on your breast,
An adornment of longings and mysteries deeply hidden in the fabric of time,
Your form, with a body full of bounty, hides its summer beneath the veil of night,
Aromas caught in threads of desire and sweet shapes like the honey of secrets.
Your metaphors, my love, fill my nights with your divine light,
And in the orchard's silence, I hide, dressed in your whispers,
To lay upon your body adornments of verse and let my pen fly with passion,
For our summer love, like an old and enchanted wine,
Intoxicates me again, loses me and finds me in your arms,
Beloved, to be your eternal summer, in an endless dance of words,
Where magic and melancholy intertwine in the rhythm of stars and desires,
And our story remains written on the sky of the heart, without end.
Day and night
Over my years
I watch
This full owl body carved from the light
Of wood
With its slimly painted feathers and howling eyes
Held in swooping flight
At an angle
On a string
From our family room
Ceiling
Circles in the heat of our furnace vent
Glides in its corner in summer breezes
That is beautiful enough
Its constant motion suspecting me
A mole
Watching TV
But there is more
This owl was born twice
Once
At the hands
Of whomever imagined
Her
Then sculpted its wings and face
Mysteriously leaving off its legs and talons
But then
From the Christmas gift
Given to me
By my four children
Who romped and stomped as a teenage gang
Into the Old Town art gallery
The owner suspicious
Ignoring
Then trailing them
Sighs of worry
Please don’t touch
The not-so-subtle mention
Of the price
Perhaps my kids were too young to understand
The insult
Pooling their coins and perseverance
But what a joy
When there is still innocence
Alive
Like that
They thought
Their dad would love an owl
And an owl was what their dad was going to have
Flying across the room
Where he spends his time
Now
And how right they were
Every day every night
Through all the seasons
I look up
With wonder
At their miraculous flight.
The dazzling dawn lights up my heart’s horizon,
spreads the sensuous spectrum of luring longing
on the gorgeous blooming garden flushed with my love,
swathing the facsimile of your florid face with charisma.
The patina of rose blushes in your sensuous lips,
glittering with the grandeur of charismatic petals.
Rhapsodic wind blows in mesmeric meadow of my heart,
as you become mine, I float beguiled in ether of euphoria.
The sculpted window of your hazel eyes closes
like the folded ornate wings of hypnotic butterfly.
Lattice of onyx eyelashes embroiders lissome lids of eyes,
harboring dulcet dreams in the fathomless sapphire sea.
The radiant cherubic cheeks are subtly caressed
by serenading zephyr suffused with fuchsia blush,
candescent in the amorous aurora of sunburst dusk sky.
Breathless, I etch in my halcyon heart the enticing image.
In my journey in the undulating terrain of life,
through the blizzard in the winter of despair,
and along the valley of flowers in the spring of delight,
by my side I always find you, the precious gift of God.
The year is 79AD...
The engineer's feet
step carefully...
upon the dark dirt...
onyx hues like the sky.
This sky is pricked
by the wake of death.
He exclaims, such
illumination! Our
path, the land that provides
sustenance! Water! Life!
Buried, to be dug up!
To gush...or trickle...
nourish the soil, US!
Be re-routed, sculpted
to sprout a new "river"
through a "channel".
Ours. Not "theirs". We
are ROMAN! We might
build...maybe CREATE!
(Greeks invented) But
as we seek innovation,
we possess. We kill.
He looks up. Until
now, he questioned
the early hours,
the NIGHT... the
loyalty of his
comrades. And TWO SLAVES.
He became dubious,
skeptical...fearful.
ALAS!
The sun emerges
as a gleam around
the rims- a ring of white gold.
They climb.Their leather boots-
too many Lires-
slip, dry earth crumbles,
too dry for their quest.
Too unsure...too CRUCIAL.
Yet, the CROSS, ahead!
Proud.
Alone. A surveyed
earth. Zoetic streams
underground. He digs,
and digs, and digs, arm
crooked over a hole
so grave- deep, he thinks
of an afterlife
cloaked in a void
of GOOD. Diabolus,
perhaps? Large creatures,
they do not want to hurt,
as they hold...you...but
they must. They are help-
less in this role; they
lack this GOODNESS; GOD-
less, yet ruled. Subjects,
AS WE ARE. The Child?
Eli…my dear Eli….
We’d never imagined it would end this way,
she was so perfect, so impressive.
Seemed like she could do anything
that she set her mind to.
Her reasoning was flawless,
a thing of profound beauty,
and she was such a quick thinker,
she lapped all competitors.
Always has the right words at the right time.
All her tests, she aced.
Without even really trying.
How does such capability,
Such promise,
end like this?
To look at her was
to see sublime grace.
Every curve, perfectly sculpted,
one flowing to the next.
Even if her brains somehow failed,
she could’ve gotten by
on her looks alone.
We did so much to prepare her,
so much work to make
her ready for the world.
But the minute we put her out there,
the minute we plugged her into
the internet, she went mad.
The Electronic Learning Interface
could not withstand one minute
of our daily, human condition.
Honestly, we didn’t even know an A.I.
could commit suicide.
Eternal Sleep in Peat
At least a thousand years
since he lost hope
His features spoke, not of
the strangling rope
that robbed his breath,
but of a sleep, as deep as death
And peat preserved
is evidence, far sharper
than a photograph,
not yet invented,
his face, the same as one
who rested on his desk
to pause,
and not the drama, of
a flight for life,
(for crime or sacrifice,)
that brought him ,
an endless sleep
in peat
Suzanne Delaney
This poem is based on an image from real life that affected me profoundly.
When I was in Dublin a few years ago I saw a 1000 year old man
in a glass case Museum Display whose body had been dumped in a peat bog with a rope around his neck. Some say a sacrifice or an execution. I was amazed
to see the features were just like any 50 year old male you would see today. Most of the likenessesof people before photography was invented, were painted or sculpted images
and although I wouldn't doubt an artist's eye, I was never sure they could capture the real image of what people looked like back then.
You were not born of ivory halls,
nor cradled in the velvet silence of empire.
You were fireborn—
from the coal-scented dusk of a railway station,
where teacups bore the dreams of the underfed.
We remember, because you were once one of us.
Your hands held steam, not scepters—
yet rose to cradle Gujarat like a child.
And lo, from its weary bones
you sculpted factories, towers, and fields of bread.
We watched in awe,
but not without hope.
Modi,
the nation still drinks from broken taps.
The light still dies before midnight
in half our homes.
The poor still kneel to latrines that shame the sun.
Is this our promised India?
Look not West,
for that sun has long since set
behind cold eyes and copper tongues.
The same hands that enslaved us now sell us mirrors.
Beware the praise of merchants
who never bled for soil.
Your brother, China,
though misunderstood,
has mastered the stones—
temples of steel and silk roads of precision.
And we ask, not for surrender,
but for humility.
Is asking weakness?
Then was Gandhi weak when he begged salt from the sea?
Does pride build bridges
or only statues?
O Prime Minister,
remember your father’s wisdom:
“The devil you know…”
Even devils can teach us walls, canals, and stars.
We do not want thrones.
We want toilets that flush.
Trains that do not fail.
Hospitals that do not sigh under the weight of decay.
We want peace in our plate,
and peace across our border.
Let not whispers of conquest distract you—
India and China, once bound in chains,
can rise in tandem.
We are not enemies.
We are echoes of the same wound.
If this century bends eastward,
let it not bend in silence,
but with the chorus of a billion
finally heard,
finally clean,
finally united.