Long Sentinels Poems
Long Sentinels Poems. Below are the most popular long Sentinels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sentinels poems by poem length and keyword.
A Slow Death or the Silence of the Old World
In the twilight of a bygone era,
Where echoes of past times still whisper,
Ancient trees murmur the secrets of celestial winds,
And silence, a heavy shroud, envelops the remnants of a forgotten realm.
Time here flows like a languid river,
Each tick of the grandfather clock
A solemn reminder of a world slowly fading away,
Its heartbeat weak but insistent,
In the quiet air of nostalgia’s embrace.
Cobblestone streets, etched with the footprints of countless souls,
Now stand deserted, like the pages of an unwritten book,
Buildings, once alive with laughter and stories,
Stand as silent sentinels, their windows like eyes, watching, remembering.
The air is thick with the scent of history,
Each breath a journey into the sepia-toned past,
Where voices once wove a tapestry of tales,
Now replaced by the soft murmur of the timeless wind.
In this sacred space, the old world dies a slow and sacred death,
Its essence dissolving into the ethereal mist,
Yet within this profound silence lies a hidden beauty,
A melancholic grace that sings to the soul.
Here, the past and present entwine in a delicate waltz,
A dance of shadows and light, of memory and desire,
Where the silence of the old world
Transforms into a symphony of forgotten dreams.
As the sun sets, casting its golden, ethereal light,
The world is bathed in a gentle, nostalgic glow,
A reminder that, even in the deepest silence,
There are stories waiting to be unearthed, to be cherished.
In the silence of this ancient world,
Where the ephemeral and the eternal embrace,
We find a poignant truth:
That, even in the quietest corners,
The heart of history beats on, whispering its timeless song.
Red House and Spruce by Edvard Munch
Snug, in a blue bunting of hibernation,
Red cottage
In a clearing of indigo and ice spruce
That form ribs of protection from
From hues of ill winds,
As a leafless birch backbone
Spreads a protective circle,
Sentinels of secrets
Behind the hidden crimson door
When eventide’s crystal constellations
Of fallen cerulean white snows
Sleep in solitude
As Aurora lingers above ash and aspen
In glowing neon passion values
Sheltered scarlet hearth and heart
Slumbers in tones of a Nordic cradle song
And winsome memories of a mountain king
In snowfall’s language of winter
Of painted cobalt shadows
Surrounding a red house.
Just the other side of the river,
oaken sentinels rise to greet Sol;
a lone birth sits nearby amid river rocks,
time worn by the flowing aqua,
that wends and winds the bends upon
its journey across the rolling lands.
Athena's child hoots a "Hello" in
tones of contentedness and friendship;
as our eyes lock, my spirit instinctively
feels the elation of a crisp, late summer
morning. I lay out a freshly caught fish
near a tree behind me, turn and cast out again.
The swift flutter of wings resounds behind me,
the gift accepted silently by my watcher,
brings me the joy unimagined within the
hardened concrete abyss; real life is about
the natural order of things and blessings
that abound upon this majestic space-marble.
“Sundar means beautiful,” the natives write—
The mangroves of south dance beneath daylight
With the flair of a gypsy drunk and bold
Swirling her skirt of salt. And callous gold
Prowls the swamp after trotting prey in flight.
The sentinels of south guard through the night
And push and pull against the windy might;
Behind their sieving shields, beliefs still hold—
Sundar means beautiful.
The men of south venture without invite
For honey, wood and fish into the plight;
The wives, like fortune, wait at the threshold
Praying and cursing gods foreign or old,
As sleepless children scramble to recite—
Sundar means beautiful.
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Form: Rondeau
Date: 13 / 11 / 2016
Sundarbans ( Literal Translation: Beautiful Forest) is a mangrove forest on the delta formed by the super confluence of the Ganges, Padma, Brahmaputra and Meghna rivers across southern Bangladesh and Bengal. It's a swamp land that belongs to tigers, crocodiles and well, millions of people who live there and earn their livelihood from the forest. The environmental importance of Sundarbans is colossal as the mangroves protect the coastal areas from erosion, surge storms and tsunamis. In my opinion, without the forest, the human history of this region would have been a completely different one.
Scribbling with amber-colored crayons,
time scrawls sepia on ancient rocks.
And ocher and orange canyon walls
rise above bushes wearing dust frocks.
Flora and fauna are left behind
serpentine rapids swallow the ground.
And white-water murmurs ricochet
off cliffs that echo the slightest sound.
Sentinels, sculpted by wind and rain,
create a maze full of twists and turns.
And embedded crystals of pure quartz
make monoliths sparkle; as day burns.
Red tints the Colorado River
shades of scarlet, where rusty rocks bleed.
And crimson waters rush to the sea,
grinding gorges at a breakneck speed.
A star-studded sky of twinkling lights
forms a backdrop for a pocked-faced moon.
And ebony spills into the chasm,
encasing all in a black cocoon.
(Quatrain)
2/23/2017
Upon the ridge, where summer winds blow free,
A spired procession wakes in shades of blue,
To paint the landscape in a pastel sea,
And bathe the hillside in an azure hue.
They stand as sentinels of amethyst,
With velvet leaves that reach toward the sun,
Adorned in dewdrops, by the morning kissed,
Before the heat of midday has begun.
Though named for wolves, they bring the soil no harm,
But yield their nitrogen to barren ground,
A wild, untamed, and vibrant floral charm,
Where beauty in the desolate is found.
So stands the lupine, resolute and fair,
A breathless wonder in the summer air.
" SECRET GARDEN"
In twilight's hush, where shadows play
A hidden world awakens to the day
A secret garden, locked away
From prying eyes, in a silent way
The trees, like sentinels of old
Guard the entrance, tales untold
The flowers, like whispers, soft and low
Share their secrets, as the winds do blow
In this enchanted land, I find my peace
A refuge from the world's noise and release
A place where dreams and magic entwine
And the beauty of nature is forever mine
So let me tend this garden with care
And keep its secrets, hidden there
For in its depths, I find my own
Secret garden, where love is sown.
" FORGOTTEN PARTS"
In hidden corners, left behind
Lies a world of forgotten mind
Pieces of us, lost in time
Echoes of memories, no longer aligned
In secret places, we conceal
The parts of us, we choose to reveal
The fragments we've left to decay
Forgotten parts, faded away
In shadows cast, by our own light
We hide the truth, from plain sight
The whispers of our deepest fears
Forgotten parts, through all the years
But what if we, were to reclaim
These lost pieces, and bear the pain
To mend the cracks, and heal the scars
And find ourselves, near and far
For in embracing, our forgotten parts
We may discover, a brand new start
A chance to rediscover, and be whole
And find the beauty, in our soul.
"GENTLE BREEZE"
Softly whispers through the trees,
A soothing calm, a peaceful ease,
The gentle breeze, a sweet release,
Bringing serenity to all who cease.
With delicate touch, it rustles hair,
And stirs the leaves, without a care,
Its gentle sigh, a lullaby sweet,
As the world awakens, to its gentle beat.
In summer's heat, it brings relief,
A cooling respite, a gentle leaf,
That stirs the soul, and lifts the heart,
And fills the senses, with a brand new start.
So let the gentle breeze, whisper low,
And bring us peace, as the moments flow,
For in its gentle touch, we find our nest,
A sense of calm, where love finds rest.
Misstep Paradise
by Odin Roark
Like the ocean’s waves repeating themselves,
mistakes love to revisit their beginnings,
gloat about their undertow power,
and patiently prepare the next towering breaker.
As if squawking gulls lining the landfall weren’t enough,
joining the prattle is the wind’s ever-repeatable,
“I told you so” oratory.
With ebb and tide behind them,
anxious errors reach progress once alive,
now but mazes of mischance,
ghost towns replete with obligatory tumbleweeds
scurrying past longevity’s sentinels of roaches and rodents
forever faithful to new arrivals.
Even as stored images of ethereal struggle
stay ensconced in supernatural satellites,
reality’s citadel of dust-caked walls and web-laced doorways
display shattered daguerreotypes,
torn photographs,
corrupted digital projections,
3D wanderings,
and holographic ghosts
of perfection’s folly,
holding fast to historical hubris,
mastery’s habitual bungling of headway.
At one end of actuality’s ghost town,
a dangling speaker bellows forth its ceaseless maxim:
“Misstep Paradise is all that matters,
as living life void of errors is to exist
without learning the monstrous reason for it all.”
Welcome to your personal shadow zone,
mind’s inner kingdom of fortuity,
where infinity’s turn-around sign of truth,
remains your chance to finally learn…
In whispers soft, the winter's dream,?A world wrapped in a silver seam,?Where icy breath and starlit skies,?Create a tapestry of sighs.
The trees stand bare, like sentinels,?Adorned with crystals, frosty spells,?Each branch a brushstroke, pure and white,?Painting the canvas of the night.
The air is sharp, yet calm and still,?With echoes of the distant chill,?Snowflakes dance on a gentle breeze,?Spiraling down through the sleeping trees.
In cozy nooks, the fire's glow,?Crackles softly, warm and slow,?While shadows flicker, tales unfold,?Of winter nights, both brave and bold.
The moon, a lantern high and bright,?Watches over the peaceful night,?And dreams of spring, with blooms in tow,?Yet treasures now the softest snow.
For in this hush, the heart can hear,?The whispers of a year gone near,?In winter's dream, both deep and wide,?A quiet grace where dreams abide.
From distant plains they stand aloof and proud,
mighty sentinels that cast their lots against time.
Your better sense tells you they will lose;
you wonder as you behold them in their prime.
From piney hills they rise resplendent in the sun,
gleaming spires that hearken to the sky.
So unattainable, their fearsome reach,
you feel the strength of God is nigh.
From quiet valleys 'neath the misty peaks,
burbling creeks betray the only sound.
All else is caught up in breathless wonder.
All else ponders what it's found.
And it is where man isn't meant to be,
that he unveils his truest destiny.
Written for "Mountains" contest, sponsored by Julie Rodeheaver