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.
In the whispers of the night, a silver thread unravels,
And we wander through the ruins of progress,
Bathed in the glow of dying stars.
Listen, the moon sings a melancholic lullaby,
Its light a phantom caress on the cheeks of time.
Oh, the tales we scrawled on the parchment of hopes,
Now just faded ink in the corners of oblivion.
The corridors of our steel dreams stretch endlessly,
Yet within their cold embrace, the spirit trembles,
Eroding under the ceaseless march of hollow triumphs.
What are these towers we have raised?
Skeletons of grandeur in a desert of yearning,
Their shadows merely the phantoms of misguided ambition.
Oh, how they sing of progress,
While the soul withers in a cage of shining lies.
See the rivers of our dreams, turned into veins of sorrow,
Carving canyons of despair through the landscapes of our being.
With each step we pretend to climb towards the heavens,
An echo of descent into the abyss of our essence.
We wear the masks of advancement,
Behind them, our faces sculpted with lines of disillusion.
In the heart of every machine, a silent scream of the forsaken spirit,
And every click, every hum, a requiem for forgotten wonders.
We thought we would conquer the stars,
But only stoked the fires of our inner darkness.
Behold, the end of the modern world,
Not an apocalypse of flames and fury,
But a soft sigh, a vanishing dream,
The illusion shattered like glass under the weight of truth.
And in the final light of dusk,
We find not endings, but mere whispers of beginnings,
Seeking solace in the twilight of our own making.
Oh, listen, kind souls, to the ballads we spin,
Of virtue unblemished and wholly untouched by all sin.
We wander as angels through this earthly den,
The noblest of women, the wisest of men.
We plan, and we toil, we strive, and we strain,
But for one tiny hitch—one perpetual pain.
Our triumphs are stymied, our futures are blurred,
And the ship of our greatness is ever deferred.
Yes, we’d be so flawless, so purely divine,
In manners and morals, in thought and in line,
We’d conquer the globe, we’d govern the weather,
And bind all of human existence together.
The world would be peaceful, a utopia grand,
With milk and with honey ablaze in the land,
All problems would vanish, dissolved without bother,
If it was not for that one, that dreadful another.
It is not our habit to shirk or to blame,
Or to play with the embers of scandal and shame.
But look at our neighbor, our partner, our mate!
They dictate our misery, our sorrow, our fate.
If a project collapses, a cake falls quite flat,
If we trip on the rug or step on the cat,
It is clear, without question or doubt,
That the fault lies squarely on another or clout.
How splendidly simple to wash our own hands,
Of the chaos that blooms in our cleverly laid plans!
If the budget goes red or the office goes sour,
If we lose our composure, our temper, our power,
We mournfully sigh, and we look to the sky,
With a perfectly sculpted, magnificent cry:
“I would be a saint, a magnate, a brother,
If it was not for the weight of this bothersome other!”
We gaze at our faults, then we quickly adjust,
For viewing our flaws is a terrible bust.
We carefully package our venom and spite,
And label our neighbor as utterly trite.
Our gossiping tongues are just tools for the truth,
To save the poor masses, to guide the sweet youth.
And we’d hold our tongues, and we’d care for each other,
If it were not for the crimes of that terrible other.
So let us raise glasses in glorious praise,
Of the scapegoats who carry us through all our days!
They take all the burdens, the blame, and the gall,
To ensure that we never, in failure, can fall.
Through the fog of our blunders, it’s delightfully clear,
That we have nothing quite left to mend or to fear.
For we’d rule as pure legends, with no mess or bother,
Yes, we’d all be quite perfect if it were not for another.
If I had the power, I would gather flakes of pure light from the dawn,
I would weave wings from the whispers of stars, to lift you among endless galaxies,
To float on the ocean of the sky, where desires take the shape of dreams,
For you are a hidden angel, sculpted from lines of poetry and eternal mystery.
The wings would be crafted from threads of gold and silver, woven by the night wind,
To reveal to the world the mystery I have always carried in my heart,
In my eyes, you have always been a star dancing on the edge of universes,
A dream born from the silent song of constellations of hope.
In every beat of your wings, you bring echoes of magic and eternities,
A spirit embracing infinity, leaving behind pure love,
When you fly, time stops, and the sky becomes an ocean of light,
And the whole world sees how your wings open doors to dreams.
You are a symbol of hope, a beacon in the night of the lost,
And in your flight, we all carry the desire to reach infinity,
Through you flows the magic that transforms shadows into golden rays,
A dream that will not end, a story written on the canvas of eternity.
Rhythmic pose arcs lifting elegant ambience
Graceful dance enshrines artful renascence
Visceral posture invites emotional response
Festive celebration of aesthetic renaissance.
Attired in red and blue of simple elegance
Glorious style augments swirling excellence
Left arm risen high points gracious eminence
Finger tips lift vivid attire in quiet eloquence.
Golden bangles adorn wrists flirting in stare
A lone yellow flower crowns her silky hair
Folded right arm obstructs in a defiant dare
Index finger hides grief, eyes closed in prayer.
Head turned right, arched with sculpted flair
Tense neck muscles manifest muted despair
Open fingers gesture a stealth grievous flare
Air of intellectual grandeur opulently glares.
Ponder why the painter didn't show her eyes
Discover invisible pain vibrant colors disguise
Beneath the splendor lies a hidden surprise
Cultural dance-music echoes her silent cries.
September 22, 2017
Placed 1st:Poems that paint a picture
Painter: Anna Razumovskaya
Sponsor: Silent One
HM: Strand choice U contest by Brian Strand
Fairy tales and love stories
Each has a beginning
Each has an ending,
but our love~ an endless story
I don't know where to start.
Paintings in varied forms~
from abstracts to impressionisms,
I've seen them all in galleries,
museums and ancient walls;
So I tried to sketch your paradigm
and sculpted it in the clouds,
But I, I couldn't make an obra
that will depict unspoken longings
to see you one more time.
Sunsets and dawns~
I've witnessed them thousand times
with the birds and the trees;
The pleasure they bring
no matter how sublime
can't appease my loneliness without you.
My love, I miss you so much~
and so I write this poem.
October 11, 2020
Under the sky that weaves its shadows on the land of forgotten dreams,
I wonder, what is life? A question that rolls through the streets,
Slipping into silent rooms, seeking answers in lost eyes,
Like stars in the darkness of night, reflecting in deep lakes.
And wisdom, like a comet piercing the abyss, whispers to me,
Those who feel lost, who awaken without a thread of meaning,
Are the ones who most often lay their questions on the pages of dawns,
Like an artist painting their life with shades of gold and silver.
And life, like a river seeking its ocean, becomes a heavy stone,
When it lacks a drawn path, a clear direction, a clear dream,
It echoes like an old song in an empty hall, pleading for meaning,
Like a lost echo in the labyrinth of an unexplored cave, silent.
But life is not meant to pass us by like a shadow on the walls of time,
It is meant to be lived, to be sculpted by our loving fingers,
To be filled with dreams that rise like kites in the wind of change,
By the desire to become more than just a fleeting moment, an eternity.
Do not wait for answers to fall from the heavens like summer rain,
Rise up, make your meaning from the clay of passing moments, blooming,
Create your own reason like an artist painting their life,
For life, in its essence, belongs to those who dare to give it meaning.
Rain chasing rain,
My mother’s heritage
The ability of being used;
Make me smile,
Touch my hand,
And I am there, slave to a glimpse of acceptance.
Patch doll,
Patches of unfulfilled dreams,
Patches of buried desires.
Dreams,
Ashes twirling about,
Hovering over the grave
Of a life, unlived.
Potential of potential,
Tangible illusion,
Shapes sculpted without lines,
Without borders.
Expectation of greatness,
Anticipation of being.
Living death
Dying life,
Pushing against the cold unknown
Just to be,
Crushed by the weight of layers of pain,
No way out,
And no way in;
Cover this grave with flowers,
May their beauty,
Be my salvation.
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.
Today's a big day
for this poet you see
For I'm having a photo
Taken of me
It's the one they're will print
On the back of my book
So I'm trying real hard
To get the right look
With my beard fully grown
And my hair flying wild
I practiced some gestures
Poses and smiles
I tried all my poses
Both standing and sitting
With an arm on my desk
Leaning forward, seemed fitting
But the beard made me look
like a Captain at sea
So I whipped out my razor
And sculpted a Tee
Some horned rimmed glass
To add to the look
And tried different ways
Of holding a book
I found a tweed jacket
Down at the thrift
With my writer's expression
It made me look miffed
Perhaps an old pipe
That I found in my coffer
To distinguish me from
Most, all other authors
The photographer said
"Don't worry, I'll crop
I'll use the new version"
Of my Photo Shop
As I peered in a mirror
I felt kind-a lame
So I used a stock picture
that came with the frame
In the twilight of a crystalline night, under the rounded silence of moonlight,
my thoughts flow like a river struggling within the banks of a poet's heart –
they become an endless stream of melancholy, of extinguished stars and untouched dreams.
There, where the echo of silence speaks, the inner voice whispers fragments of hidden truth,
and each word breathes in the rhythm of my troubled soul's pulse.
When I looked into the mirror of time,
I felt the unshared desire of the world to become the poet they would wish for,
to answer the call of a faceless crowd, but then, in that moment, I knew –
true poetry knows no compromise.
For in a world of cheerful or sad merchants, you encounter empty faces, without luster,
without true love for forms sculpted from the soul's sighs.
A merchant of illusions, clinging to the demands of monotonous days,
loses the priceless joy of pure creation,
of living each drop of color spilled on the canvas of oblivion.
In the depths of my troubled heart, unattainable dreams dance,
I paint imperfect but sincere images, for deep truth cannot be bought.
And I find myself, poor in wealth, but rich in the joy misunderstood by many,
that happy poverty that nourishes the entire universe of my own thoughts.
The light in the gaze of an authentic poet shines in the darkness of the world,
for he creates not for the pleasure of others, but for the eternal fire of his own passion.
I weave my wings from the fabric of my dreams and fly freely,
above a world that may never understand me,
but I, deep within, know that true poetry seeks its own language and rhythm –
without chains, without demands, simply, sublimely.
Reality is painfully sweet, a scent of melancholy soaked in the twilight of each lost day,
and thus, poor but happy, I remain a poet –
a wandering heart, a soul searching for itself in every word, in every note, in every color.