Long Shadow Poems
Long Shadow Poems. Below are the most popular long Shadow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shadow poems by poem length and keyword.
Lofty oracle did with ceremonious rite fealty ordain
Two eagles soared on fecund mountain terrain
As twin peaks, sipped frothy dew from Venus's fountain
For a fortnight, rapturous clouds danced o'er my satin mane
But euphoric heights could not our platonic bond sustain
Anon, gilded valley below did your wandering eye retrain
Your cresting ego did my cherubic halo disdain
In wanderlust, you sifted greener pastures; drifting swain
Silting the tender lillies with a blighting stain
While from my spent pollen your nimble legs did abstain
As strapping lad, your insatiable mind rippling brooks did drain
Your **** desires drove you to climb the rockiest domain
And with intemperate senses the wildest herbs strain
My domesticated coattails could not stride your brackish train
My sallowing rose did a mildewed ring attain
Yet wilting stalk did in your fluttering shadow remain
Hoping for the cleansing tides of a penitent rain
Honest as the night is long
eyes that have no holes and teeth that never show.
Sinews Strewn in Straw-like manner making Shadow Men
whose bellies all lie lit with ash of Golden Yearnings.
Crawling on this dangerous beach searching for strings
and springs of learning; bubbles and froth, to tend their unmet reach.
Distant distilled feelings gathering Storms of Skin,
erupt into lives’ another’s known. Passion woven
to the rug another trods; lives devoted to another’s Gods,
whose swiveled mind collects all tired worded insects.
Where the Middle of Divine leaves no footstep unworn
And we might well ask, “When is the middle of what we might have become”?
Did we alight, Create this Life, Whose Memory then, Our Living Proof.
Black Smile manufacturing unknown Holy Grief wearing shroud of Laughter to Ignite
following empty eyes that hunger deep within the Audience of All.
We Pride Ourselves to Give the Gift of Life
accept with indignation lingering; rosaries in prayer fingering
waiting for ourselves to slow awaken
No Thought at all to Gifts that lie Untaken.
With iniquities’ virulence infecting my soul
paralyzing my very being along heart’s distress…
I groped for divine healing, assured freely by the Lord
such is joy-filled forgiveness of eternal redemption’s pardon.
Now settled in His love, I keep beseeching Him with yielded spirit:
“Keep me as the apple of the eye,
hide me under the shadow of thy wings.”*
Basking under the shadow of God’s wings,
I’m shielded from evil pestilence and fatal aftermath
of self-centered arrogance midst apathetic greediness
since Christ conquers self-glorifying haughtiness through His sacrifice…
today, as a recipient of His compassion, I say with bliss:
“How excellent is thy lovingkindness O God!
Therefore I put my trust under the shadow of thy wings.”**
Putting my faith under the shadow
of the sovereign Almighty’s safeguarding wings
my spirit is settled in His peace, despite pandemic’s threat
sharing with others the Saviour’s eternal life’s gift…
with worshipful gratitude, I declare constantly:
“Because thou hast been my help,
therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.”***
*Psalm 17:8; **Psalm 36:7; *** Psalm 63:7.
April 30, 2020
8th place, "Shadows" Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke; judged on 5/1/2020.
In the shadow of the oak lies silhouettes
promises, imaginings you won't forget
branches create mysteries with no regrets
inklings of hopes and dreams, so you never fret
hearts are lulled into sleep by silent prayers
erasing pain and sorrow that fears beget
falling soft like light upon those unawares
coloring the soul in hues of gentle grace
whispering kindness, praise, like musical chairs
hope lifts the darkness with a tender embrace
dancing through the soul, breathing a final sigh
inspiring thoughts of love we cannot erase
Miracles arousing love we can't deny
awakened by the oak trees shadows goodbye
In the quiet corridors of my mind, where memory and flickering thoughts reside,
we tell ourselves stories in order to live, to find meaning in the chaos,
seeking sermons in the despair of loss, searching for lessons in violence,
where five snuffed-out lives become a moral parable,
a narrative we shape to comprehend an incomprehensible reality.
We are the weavers of our own truth, choosing the most viable threads,
interpreting what we see through the prism of our elaborate tales,
imposing a coherent line upon disparate images,
freezing the shifting phantasmagoria of our experiences
with the ideas we have learned, like anchors in the turbulent sea of existence.
Through this stream of consciousness, I wander deeply,
where tangled thoughts intertwine with hues of sentiment,
seeking to grasp the elusive threads of dreams and weave them into meaning,
we are adventurers in the landscapes of intellect and soul,
each story we tell a beacon, a light in the dark forest of the unknown.
We find comfort in the narrative line we impose,
an appearance of order in the whirlwind storm of existence,
where each moment is a passing phantom, each experience a fleeting shadow,
and yet, in this magic of storytelling, we find anchor, grace,
transforming the ephemeral into the enduring, the transient into the eternal.
Melancholy wraps itself around each story,
a whisper of beauty from sadness, a hint of light within the shadow,
each chosen word an attempt to freeze the fluid, to grasp the intangible,
to bind the phantasmagoria into something we can hold close to our hearts.
Life, with all its chaos and fractured pieces,
finds a fragile peace within the narratives we construct,
as we trace the lines of meaning with trembling fingers,
seeking to transcend the transient, to touch the infinite
in the sacred space of a well-told story, of a fleeting moment captured forever.
Through our stories, we become more than mere spectators,
we become the architects of our own destinies,
each story a spell, an enchantment against the inexorable flow of time,
and in this act of creation, we discover ourselves,
the storytellers, the dream weavers, the light in the storm,
casting a gentle glow over the phantasmagoria that is life.
Menace intends to mow
Ruthless slices stem renegades
Remnants flap erratic,
Resilience remains unafraid
Virtuous dispose overgrown
Scorn of manicurist imbalanced
Courage operates alone
Realisation spurred by challenge
City's mesh messiness
Accepts intended bedlam mosaic change
Faceted shadow corners glint
Light slides, vertical snake rearrange
Cult harbingers cut opposers
Whip and snip straight edges
Goaded by nurtured clones
Rebel dispels lectures
Scope stacks psyches intermingled
Hand clasp members hope
Allegiance tucks members beneath wing
Anonymous chase, utopia
2nd August 2020
Any Form, Any Topic
Brian Strand, sponsor
Heavy is the brow that sits the crown of power,
fame or shame it is a wonder that we live with
greed to want for more than we can afford
or sow the seed and set the deal
dealt to us in deeds we need…
We want more to succeed in our greed
we wear the finery of a life lived out fast
we burn out in all the lights we love
and breathe the shadow of the tv screen
and dance the dance macabre
We want to have and to hold all that
is dear but to pay the price
for a mear meek soul in the void
of life that is touched for a costly lie
We seek to have and to hold
to warm and to mold the binary
of life in our hands such is the power of man
For heavy is the brow that sits
the crown the power the
flame the perceived shame
We are plugged into little black
digital boxes and waste our
lives in opinions and checkmarks,
suicide drives
We live vicariously through
others imagery we worry
what we are liked or shared or
only care as we count the
Tick-Tocks of life now lost in a computer app
We are void of passion seconds
to our demises close to our
death but 30 secs of shame
slides slices of life pointless and enflamed
Heavy is the brow with thoughts
of more than what we are more
than self, as humanity runs
a mock not thinking or dreaming
we only wait for dawn with our
eyes wide shut as we scream into the night
By: Khomotso Makitla
Dear loved one, It’s me your UNREQUITED LOVER.
In hope I hoped that this day never unveil.
As your WHISPERS still roam free in brain, whispers
and hisses of broken promises.
I nearly fumbled to open my heart once more,
But I once trembled on your mountain of lies.
Stone by stone I was there but there I was not,
Piles of those stones turned into a mountain and far i was pushed.
That mountain’s shadow tinted my heart,
For my heart is dark still, and I thought I was tough like steel.
But you’ve shown how easy it is to steal, once vital organ,
And turn it into a hard and cold object.
But I watched as your mountain of lies Mounts and the colder you become.
The shoulder to cry on, turned into the shoulder that made me cry on,
Never believed in cruelty, but that was my reality.
Surely I didn’t believe that rubbles of stones can incline into this shade of,
Darkness, that blind folded me from seeing the majestic hill up front.
That why I like to say fool me once, and like ancient Artifacts you will,
Be the thing of the past. ©?
I love to let my mind wander in the morning…while I walk the streets alone…
I never know where it will lead me…you might say my mind has a mind of its own.
Sometimes it leads to my friends, my children, my grandchildren…my wife.
other times it leads to God, love, war, hate or other mysteries of life.
Then there are mornings like this morning…where before my walk is done…
My mind, by the kind of questions it asks, decided to have a little fun.
Does the moon ever wonder about how she phases in and out…
does she ever ask herself why?
Is there a star that ever feels lonely and wishes for a friend to share the sky?
Is there a bird who’s ever wished she could sing a different song…
or that her music came with words?
Is there a cricket who’s ever wondered what it’d be like to be a bird?
Is there a snake who's ever wished he could walk instead of crawl?
Is there an evergreen whose ever wished she could be filled with color in the fall?
After listening to the voices of so many other animals…
is there a rabbit out there who wishes he had a voice too?
Is there an owl who wishes he could ask What, When, Where or How…
instead of always asking Who?
Are the clouds in the night happy being white or would another color they prefer?
Does the wind ever wish her beauty could be seen…or is she happy only being heard?
Is the water in the ocean at night happy being dark…or would it prefer to glow?
When not walking beside, behind or in front of me…where does my shadow go?
I never know where my mind will take me…where its wonderings will roam
from the time I step out my front door…until I find my way back home.
But it’s fun on mornings…like this morning…
with my untethered mind as my guide…
to let it lead
while I sit back
hold on tight
and just enjoy the ride.
In the dark
ticking of the clock
along the ancient walls
silence is deafening
echoes in the halls
the moon glows, cold
as its bright moonbeams
are sliced into sliver ribbons
across the floor
sliding across the tattered door
nothing stirs all is unmoved
a shadow sits nodding, near
an archway it lingers
as darkness is never complete
the fire struggles with its blaze
its embers are lazy crimson, orange
they die in deaths silent, flames
wile wind dances
in the skeletons of winters trees
where there’s only a sliver to trace,
intricate patterns in moonlight n shadows
as a clock strikes, the infinite
tick
tick
tick (x3)
Tock
in the deep dark
still unmarked by the settling clock
as pale moonbeams are sliced
on forgotten dusty floors
a shadow sits nodding, in silence...
near the ancient doors...