Long Sequined Poems
Long Sequined Poems. Below are the most popular long Sequined by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sequined poems by poem length and keyword.
* There was one midnight hour when I stood alone
Beyond my bed, and before the window of the room
I was the child in the white flannel gown
Watching a white moth fly and a white moon rise
The whole family slept..except for me
They never heard me steal out onto the porch
And climb down the steps into the fresh night air
Under the sequined sky crowned as mistress of our valley
Something whispered to me, in a voice dimmer than words
It spoke with the drum of the cricket's thunder
Faintly capricious, lulling my steps upon the concrete slate
I struggled to learn how to breathe again this hour late
But trepediation vaporized, soft and cunning, wise
Temptation embedded my bare footed quest
Without hesitation, no fear of unknown
Lit by bleached crescent moon,
I knew I was not alone....
Inspired by Gareth's contest "Leave me hanging"
The mountain stream chisels a valley
as narrow as the neck of a swirling swan.
The water dancing down in concerto of cascades,
crashing on the rocky ledges,
splashes silver drops spiraling like ballerina.
They carry the poetic expression,
the stream proffers to the rock and to the sky.
The water rushing down the vale in a torrent,
rolling on the polished pebbles strewn on the bed,
sings an endless song of divine jubilation.
It carries the poetic expression,
the stream proffers to the pebbles and to the vale.
Magnolia trees line the slant slopes of the valley,
green as the emerald waters of the deep sea.
The aureate leaves dancing in the rippling breeze
fall softly rustling on the ground,
whisper the autumn tunes to the dew-crowned grass.
They carry the poetic expression,
the trees proffer to the breeze and to the grass.
The moonlight sequins flood the alley
with romantic mist as mystic as the secrets of heart.
For the young couple drowned entranced in dream
the touch of love makes the silence play violin.
It carries the unwritten lyrics,
the couple says to the dreams and to the silence.
As the street lamp lights the alley in moonless night,
in its glow as soft as the touch of the spring zephyr,
a mother walks like an angel through the heavenly cloud,
carrying her child on her tender arms.
The child’s vague voice only the mother understands,
the kiss she gives touches the heart the child feels.
These are metamorphosed verses,
the child echoes and the mother says in a kiss.
From the sprouting emotions bloom the fervor buds
under the convivial canopy of subtle sensitivity,
casting heavenly colors on the poet’s psychic canvas.
As the twilight sequesters sonorous silence in stalled time,
the poetry of life flows under the star-studded sky
with the fluid passion rhythmically sequined.
The winds of imagination blows through the mindscape,
raising the dust of dormant sentiments unbound,
turning them into a surging storm of creative urge.
On its wings flies with afflatus the poet profound.
The moistened meadow of my heart
dries desolate like a desert.
The climbing cloud of parched passion
doesn’t come low with the mystique shadow,
makes my overcast mind morose.
My halcyon horizon waits
for the southern wind to blow,
brings from the fervent sparkling sky
your sequined charisma below
to swathe my shades of blues.
In the surge of sequestered sandstorm
my derelict desire drifts away
from the anchorless dunes of the desert.
If you turn into an emerald tree
in the far away fawn forest,
the baroque boughs would reach out
to the seraphic sky of desire.
For a while in their soothing shade
I would like to repose,
hear the song the leaves sing
with the dainty drops of dancing rain.
In titular template of loneliness,
the spaced-out ethereal melody,
the dreamy transient tranquility
of the beginning gets energized
in the million steps I walk for you,
setting free the agonized heart
that quivers the wilderness willows.
The configuration of the unyielding essence
repudiates the catharsis reprisal.
I find a place at the edge of your taciturn time,
and sense the sound of silence.
As all the dreams blaze in an inferno,
I breathe the smoke of the ashen memory,
silently float in the nothingness sky.
In the space between the slices of my heart,
where the frail feelings get frozen,
the design of desolation is intertwined
with the splinters of shapeless icons of desire.
They fly away in the trajectory of silent longing.
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
After the party, I found in a stupor, my old bed
getting tired of lasting confinement, decided to fly out.
On wings of the bed-sheet turning into a soaring swan
it started to flutter away before I could even doubt…
Could a bed really become a flying bird?
I clutched in fear the flapping wings lest I fall.
Through my bemused eyes I looked up to the sky,
saw the stars beckon me as they shined in splendor.
The bed flew to a tropical island beyond the horizon,
where the scarlet sun was stuck mellow in silken sky.
The flying bed got wrapped up in a colorful royal robe,
landed softly in a crimson valley of flushing flowers.
The sunburst horizon of the rising dawn dripped
with the chromatic charisma on the sequined sea.
On the rhapsody of waves the golden garlands glowed,
the beguiled bird in me soared on the wind of ecstasy,
On the blue hills at the edge of sculpted verdant island,
the embrace of the tinged cloud made twilight filigree.
The murmur of the sparkling stream tuned my joy,
flowed with rapture, resonating with enticing melody.
Rain-drenched crystal sky greeted the emerald valley
with the hued touch of the cosmic beauty of rainbow.
The land exhaled the petrichor of the drenched earth,
my senses suffused the mind with the scent of euphoria.
I experienced entranced the lure of pristine nature’s beauty,
wanted to stay on in the tranquil tropical island forever.
“The silence fades with a soft embrace”
in the undulating landscape with swerving life stream.
The concert of murmur cascades with mesmeric melody
in the rapture ripples of the whispering breeze,
the sound of music flies past me, braced by spell of silence.
My aloneness walks me in the desolate wasteland
with my serrated shadow trailing your fading footprints
through the quietude of the sequined moonbeam,
until you see me as a spellbound quintessence,
configured in the silhouetted contours of silence.
Touched by faint flow of silence your face glows vibrant,
the radiant beauty flows with charming trance
through my enthralled still senses.
My gleaming heart dances to the tune of music,
as you make the serenading silence within me so unique.
As the rising sun tints your charismatic calmness
with the patina of hued tide in the sea of tranquility,
I swim blissfully in its amorous waters
with my dreams dancing in the rhythm of aureate yearning
in the shimmering shore of swathing golden silence.
Morti Martha was from a bigger town
A glitzy town, a jazzy town, Las Vegas.
She had been a showgirl; is what I was told.
Not by her, but by many others.
She had visited our church once, and her clothes sparkled.
Rhinestones in church! Some of the staid members were askance.
I thought she looked ritzy and fine wearing sequined plastic baubles.
She wore an elaborate headpiece to her first PTA meeting.
“Is that gold leaf?” someone asked. A few tittered.
I thought Morti Martha looked gorgeous, so I sat by her.
“I love your headpiece,” I told her.
“They are the ones that started the rumors,” she said.
“I am buying in to please them.”
born with hair slightly wavy as
summer sea's crest, Mom would
treat it as her morning decor ritual---
ponytailed, pinned at the crown with
zigzag of ribbons, braided two-ways,
and god knows what arrangements
followed--oh yes, the old maid bun!
jet black , it flowed down past shoulders;
the envy of high school.girls as we
started to soiree and party...like so,
by 2000, my lattice of curled tresses
met its waterloo: silky, straight locks
invaded mod media, downgrading
my status as a hometown freak...
my Nicole Kidman jive looking passe!
I remember fanatically calendaring
regular visits to a stylist-- a rite abhored
in young adolescence...
yes, magic of fad can be done;
from brazilian rebond, collagen tweaks,
highlights in tints of raspberry or maze
and more top shot brouhahas just
to be part of the scene!
yet, few seasons back, i began missing
myself... though shoulder length
locks inhabited me; i grew forlon, empty.
Imagining how Mom ran her fingers
down my young hair, I chose to let
my tresses flow without restraint---
jet black even through bright hues
of moonlit passages and
dawn's sequined, golden rise.
now. air- tossed, wind blown,
hand- caressed, aloe- rinsed
with few organic whips,
I sweep my hair
in its free flow movement --
allowing the me to be the natural
woman I am.
The lustrous perfume bottle
avec neck spritzer and bottom caudal
With hexing brio it holds her captive
Pure rapture is sexually attractive
A woman’s torso a glass statuette
dressed in a golden chic corset
An old hippy scarf suspends on the wall
Her ‘Eau De Joy’ is kitschy after all
Shimmies into mid-calf western boots
She rifles through sequined body suits
Last touches of an aromatic scent
she deems the fragrance extravagant
Lurid lemon zest smacks of old school
Blithely vivacious leads them a drool
Juicy sweet notes from cleavage to chin
A whirlwind of hazy mist he’s in
Wild at heart with beats that throttle
A burning desire from a perfume bottle
Under the bright lights and up on the main stage
A woman spins plates while the audience rage
She has on a tight dress in its sequined glory
We can watch her caper and listen to her story
I have this plate spinning and now another there
Two in the back, balanced on the legs of that chair
Spin and twirl, I am adding more to whirl and spin
Keeping those up and adding yet more with a grin
So many plates are spinning with more suspended
Darting and dashing –no time- success is dependent
On not allowing anything to slow, to falter, to fall
More on the stage, again, now go low, now go tall
The music is garish and the strain shows on her face
A forest of spinning plates, the strain leaves its trace
That plate is my job, with its demands on my time
The pretty one is my daughter, my absence a crime
I don’t even know if my lover is here; think about that
There is a plate by were I read a book, its where I sat
Once the show has started, there is so little time left
Keeping all these plates spinning is a skill of the deft
They spin and spin and I am alone up here in the front
What happens if one falls, I can’t risk it, I simply wont
I am getting tired and I want to go to sleep in a warm bed
I want to make love to my man, kiss my girl’s soft head
Too many plates are spinning around, but if I add more
Won’t it be better for me, there is lots of room on the floor
The audience claps and chants and demands the trick
But tonight I’m going to make love and try to be orgasmic
I hear a voice whisper, he says, drop some of those plates
Come out with me, let’s eat some dinner, go out on a date
Broken dishes and shards of pottery can be swept up easily
But giggling and laughing is what you should seek eagerly
It will be there tomorrow, the tricks and the onerous tasks
Cara mio, it is my whispers “you are doing all that is asked”