Long Shimmering Poems

Long Shimmering Poems. Below are the most popular long Shimmering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shimmering poems by poem length and keyword.


Forget Me Not and the Silver Prince

Forget Me Not and the Silver Prince
They loved to run and play
In the cold of winter time
This chilly snowy day

With mittens in a shade of red
And boots to match the same
They followed footprints in the snow
This was their favorite game

Running to the forest edge
They looked so deep inside
When footprints that they found instead
Had seemed to run and hide

For hours they still played this game
No heed they paid the cold
Forget Me Not began to cry
The Silver Prince so bold

Said, “Why now cry my little friend
In tears that come to freeze
A’ shimmering your bright red cheeks
As we gaze on the trees”

Forget Me Not then answered him
While shivering where she stood
“The trees,” she said. “They are all dead
No leaves do hold their wood”

The Silver Prince began to laugh
As snowflakes sat his eyes
To chuckle at the words she said
As snow fell from the skies

“My tiny friend, oh precious one
These trees are but asleep
If you would listen closely now
Their snores shall quell your weep”

Forget Me Not then listened
For in the forest roared
A gust of wind so chilling cold
Alas the trees had snored

“For it is every winter”
The Silver Prince did speak
“The trees they fall to slumbering
As through the cold they sleep”

She smiled like the sunrise
Beneath her golden hair
For this one fact that he had told
She sure was not aware

Returning to the castle
He took her by the hand
And whispered something in her ear
That she did understand

He told her that he loved her
And if she followed true
He’d teach her all she needs to know
Of everything he knew

From that day forth they wandered
She learned from all he said
But one thing true he whispered
Kept flowing through her head

Her heart was filled with laughter
Her eyes they shone so bright
Each day that they would run and play
Within the warm sunlight

When spring it now descended
New leaves upon the trees
Fresh flowers in the garden grew
A soft inviting breeze

For at this time she noticed
His words were not a lark
For every tree turned green again
Within their favorite park

And on this day she whispered
To him these words so true
The Silver Prince he smiled
She said, I love you too
Form: Rhyme


Premium Member In Every Snowflake I Behold

Magnificent Willow stands in silent prayer, 
                                        calm and composed,
                                 so does the unruffled Evergreen, 
                                stretching its arms in thankfulness, 
                              decked with shimmering snow-pellets, 
                    gleaming and glistening as the countless stars are, 
                  in the absolute harmony of the magnanimous cosmos
                                      Majestic jewellery adorned.
 
                                                It's Christmas!
                  symbolizing the spirit of kindness, love, compassion, joy...
                              I glimpse through the hazy window-panes, 
                              world around me dazzling with shiny snow,
                           reminiscences of many delightful Christmas days
                                         roll through my thoughts,
                                 an open album of heartfelt memories!
                                  Of boxes, ribbons, and golden bows,
                                    sprinkles, silver bells, and cookies... 
                                        of family rejoicing together...
                            of extending generous support to the needy. 


                                        A tranquil, serene night, 
                     mesmerizing snow, falling uninterrupted, unhindered,
                                 envelop the entire universe around me. 
                                 I ponder my life of multi-coloured hues,
                                        in every snowflake I behold, 
                                the inspiring dreams, the fervent hopes, 
                                             the intense ebullience - 
                                              for ever crystallized.

                                 
                                  A Strand - 1046 Poetry Contest
                                        Sponsor: Brian Strand
                                              FIRST PLACE
Form: Imagism

Premium Member MAESTRO'S BATON

At dusk, the cicadas rise,  
tiny bronze lanterns  
warming in the branches.  
Their song begins low,  
a tremble of earth-heat  
and summer breath.

And there~ 
in soft cotton pajamas  
printed with moons and small brave stars~  
a little boy steps onto the porch  
as if onto a stage  
built just for him.

He lifts a wooden spoon  
like a maestro’s baton,  
solemn in the way only children  
can be solemn  
when the world finally listens.

The cicadas hush,  
then swell~  
a shimmering chorus  
of wings and ancient rhythm.  
He nods once,  
and they follow,  
obedient as any orchestra  
that knows genius when it sees it.

The night glows around him,  
silver-soft,  
the moon leaning closer
to watch this small conductor  
shape the wild into music.

And when he lowers his spoon,  
the cicadas quiet  
with reverence~  
their final notes drifting  
into the waiting dark.

The boy smiles,  
bare feet on cool porch wood,  
pajamas glowing faintly  
in the moonlight.  
He has conducted the night,  
and the night  
has bowed.

Premium Member Dragon

Denizen of abyssal labyrinth,
legendary ancient Wyrm seeks succour
within prodigious sepulchral cavern:
her domicile for an ageless lifetime.

Ethereal shafts cascade through ceiling's
stochastic rifts, piercing tenebrous tomb;
vicious viscous scarlet smears juxtapose
against shimmering iridescent scales.

Aeons past, Faustian pact formed with Man:
vow of harmonious co-existence
exchanged for fulgurant falchion forged in
the heart of dragonflame's conflagration.

Sacred covenant shattered this night by
myriad ironclad interlopers;
ruination's harbinger was strident
warrior wielding token of treaty.

Last vestiges of cacophonous roar
dissipate into the Stygian depths;
acrid stench of brimstone clogs the air as
remnants of vitriolic pyres linger.

Twin gargantuan fibrous wings contract
behind enormous muscular torso;
fulgurating talons sluggishly sheaved
as serpentine tail shudders and falls limp.

Priceless metals and prismatic gemstones
intersperse with charred and twisted corpses;
amongst detritus of mortal conflict,
majestic titan finally crumples.

Massive lurid yellow orbs exhibit
an unfathomable intelligence;
succumbing to the inevitable,
moribund colossus bows forlorn head.

Lifemate butchered by zealous paladin;
remains of final clutch just motes on breeze.
Burden borne by solitary relict:
regal behemoth was last of her kind...

----------------------------------------

(C) John C Michaels, 25th April 2017

Free verse, no meter, no rhymes - as per contest rules.
10 syllables on every line (howmanysyllables.com)

For the contest entitled "A Mythical Creature" sponsored by Julia Ward.

Lonely and Lamentable

I was once a kid,
Trying to be rid
Of the thoughts of awful feelings inside 
And consuming last minute pride

I was living life by chance
I danced the dance of love enhanced
I was giving up true romance
I danced the fancy dance and pranced

I sung the lonely song of lament
With tears building up in my eyes 
I lost a lung, singing loud and confident
I can see the truth behind your lies

Denied the fact that I’m still in love with the hatred
You put me through along with unnecessary dread
Instead, don’t even call me on my cellphone
Because I’ll be fighting this battle alone

You picked a bone with me
You screwed me up with ecstasy
You threw a brick at my tree
You’re barking up the wrong envy 

I’m swallowing this sea of shimmering shame
Blame me for your wretched wrongs you’ve done
Is what you have done with my horrid heart flame
I came undone in your arms and we had our fun

I’m a jar without its lid
You tried so hard to bid
Me a farewell and oh well
If I told you to go to hell


Echoes 20-04-23

Melancholic notes of a lone flute brush past my ears,
the night yet to settle but the sun long gone,
only a rosy pink glow shimmering behind depthless clouds.
A drizzle of rain falls gently,
ricocheting off of the wooden roofs,
running off its slanted edge,
thrumming harmonically on the stone slabs below.
How many springs has it been since you left,
I wonder as I think about us.
The rights and wrongs of our past have already begone,
yet how can I leave it all behind?
Your golden eyes, your radiant smile,
the starry love I once wished to be.
I gaze deep into my cup
watching it fill with rain,
drop by drop; inch by inch
mirroring the tears gathering in my eyes
and the growing pain.
Bittersweet memories circle me like a fire,
unable to escape.
Full of people is the world,
yet none like you will ever return.
I always tell myself that it is better to let you go,
maybe I pretend it was all a dream,
but I keep coming back,
Back to the place where we belong together.
I picture how you used to sit here,
the rays of sunlight diving through the pine trees,
picture them illuminating you as you played the flute so elegantly.
The laughs we shared, the tears we shed,
that's all gone now; memories are my everything.
So many evenings I have sat here,
losing myself in history,
reminiscing in the tunes you used to play
and in those melodies I find solace,
somewhere where the pain is not so great,
somewhere where the grief won't rip canyons in my heart.
So as I pick up your flute and begin to blow,
the first shaky notes of  Dance of the Blessed Souls 
rings across the countryside.
© Shane Zhao  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member The Haunted Manor

The old manor had red stone bricks covered in climbing vines,
and columns and facades in dazzling swirls;
it was classical architecture with intricate lines,
a treasure in the middle of no where, I pondered touching my pearls;
I knocked on the door, so scared my straight hair curls.

It slowly opens, creaking on rusty hinges-  and I step inside,
seeing grand chandeliers of leaded glass crystal lights;
sparkling and shimmering, they had been on, right? I lied,
portraits watched me as I walked around looking at the sights;
for sure those portraits were of the long dead-  hello, I loudly cried.

Was this place vacant, maybe even haunted, this I could not ignore, 
gone to waste and ruin, with no one living here any more; 
for leaves had blown in under the ornate front door.

I had seen a sign "Rooms For Rent" nailed to a tree,
just before my car had crashed into a ditch;
driving through the rain had been a big mistake I now see,
but, I needed shelter for day had turned to pitch;
dark and as I walked the road I hoped they had tea.

Now, I stood dripping wet in this room from the past, 
hello, I whispered  and jumped when a male voice spoke;
from behind me-   the man was old with eyes vast;
we have been waiting he said, let me show you to a room, his voice a choke,
it was a horrible night of weeping and creaking and I could not last.

I run down the road from that house-   forevermore, forevermore   . . .

_________________________
January 6, 2019


Poetry/Rhyme/The Manor House
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1101-590-02
All Rights Reserved.  Written under Pseudonym.


Written for the contest, 'One Night In a Haunted Manor'
sponsor, Tania Kitchin

Fifth Place
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Muse of Creation

Resting on the mountains,
Suggesting joy and laughter,
Reflecting grace, stirring up…
Happiness that erases every doubt,
Silences every worry and fear,
Reminds the heart to be thankful…

Because, as I walk the autumn path
Delicious scents, rustling in the air,
Quieting my tears and whisper faith,
Gentling the soul with vibrant hues…
Amber and gold, chestnuts bold,
Tempting the light to touch the mind
With crackling steps, 
Alive as the oaks and the birch,
Intimate like the dancing leaves
Falling all around, 
Waltzing… whimsical and loud…
At the clouds…

Rolling through azure skies,
Mingling with the soft light,
Calming every insecurity and doubt…
With elation alive, like the flowing
Rapids singing gladness, wonder
Through the sigh of forest prayers,
Fading into the soft calmness…
Blessing the forever home of squirrel
Raccoon and rabbit, harvesting
Hoping, hurrying through the brilliant
Rays of a sunlight day, 
Imagining the warmth, the praise
That comes alive in the heart of a life
Who listens to the music abiding
Inside the trembling of setting sun,
Rising fast in the morning, across
Gray peaks and shimmering shrubs,
Awakened by the sprinkling of dewdrops…

Tender caresses, loving, doting…
On the forest’s edges, 
Publishing melancholy and miracles
All together in one scene,
While lifting all the sadness, the dark
With the morning’s radiant beam

The story of autumn…
Embracing the mountains,
Kissing the night,
Lifting darkness and doubts
As the faithful stars
Quiet every sadness
And remind the spirit
To believe in this gladness
That comes alive on the promises

Autumn’s still life – painted by the Creator
Who christens the silence…
With beauty that awakens the sensations
Inspiration – the muse of creation





Still-Life Autumn Scene Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
December 11, 2022

Premium Member The poem begins again

“The poem begins again”

Of all the poems of all the dreams
I breathe all of you back into me 
And out again 

Like standing on wet sand 

With the salted sea 
washing over and underneath 
my bare mind, my bare feet

Trying to drag me out again

I watch the horizon 
sunlight drowning
the winsome hope unseen

it's a contradiction 

shimmering, 
like the horizon  
that straight hard line

It never sinks.

The poem begins again

Candide Diderot. ‘25 




“You’re the window of the ocean
The breath of the wood
With no waste away and no yesterday
No bad and no good…” 
Elysian Fields 

“Do you know what a poem is, Esther?'
No, what?' I would say.
A piece of dust.'
Then, just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.'
And of course Buddy wouldn't have any answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick or couldn't sleep.”
Sylvia Plath,"The Bell Jar"


“I did not rush to be seen
Floating in mother’s warm
Dark Sea endlessly
My resistance wore down
On a Friday near noon
Piercing the light
Too soon, too soon …
I met the world slowly, slowly
Thought I was a stowaway
Caressed me into being
For nearly nothing
Thought I was a stowaway
Guess I was a stowaway…
mostly not visible but to the air
mostly not visible but to the air
mostly not visible but to the air

shadow of the living light” 
Elysian Fields
Form: Narrative

In Honor of Her Brother, Part Ii

...For a year they lived and were not bothered,
began to question what it was they’d heard,
but one careless night, though the love was sublime,
Miriam got pregnant for the second time.

Not long after things started going amiss,
Brad tried to stay calm,”Let’s not read into this.”
But furniture moved, the creaking returned,
they heard pained howls that left them disturbed.

And one still night, quieter than most tombs,
Miriam heard a dripping from the bathroom.
She felt a terror most will never know,
refused to get up, clutching covers close.

For ten long minutes the dripping went on,
then suddenly stopped, and a new horror spawned,
’cause in the doorway a tortured shape stood,
bone scraping on wood as it moved down…

Then something behind it, a new brilliant form,
shined with ethereal light by the door!
It was a young man, shimmering in white,
that beamed out brightly, lighting up the night.

He grasped the horror in a great bear-hug,
crushing inwards the great demonic thug,
as the young man fought with this entity fell,
he cried,”You are long overdue down in Hell!”

Then in a flash the two figures vanished,
Miriam sat up stunned, Brad oblivious,
light appeared again, then over her bed,
the young man floated, looking exhausted.

And though she’d not seen her first little one,
somehow she knew that she looked on her son.
The shape of his face, both Brad’s and her own,
the spirit of a boy she never had known…

James smiled and said,”The priest asked the Big Man
if he could stop this from happening again.
Normally He says that,’Vengeance is Mine,’
but He subcontracted out to me this time.”

Miriam gasped,”I….there’s so much to say…”
James said,”Don’t fear, you’ll meet me at the gates.
No need to rush though, live out all your years,
there’s so much to show my sister down here.”

With that he faded, the room now serene,
she awakened Brad to tell what she’d seen,
he seemed skeptical, but didn’t press the fact,
but the creaking and howls never came back.

From that day forth their farm was a refuge,
devoid of spirits, now hopeful and true,
and to a girl Miriam became mother,
named Etta-James, in honor of her brother.
Form: Narrative

Get a Premium Membership
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a Premium Membership.
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace