Long Shore(a) Poems
Long Shore(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Shore(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shore(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Let us cherish each moment we have,
Embracing love and words written.
In our private garden,
Among a rhapsody of blooms,
Please come meet there.
In our garden,
Is the love of poetry and roses.
Glorious garden where two souls meet.
Like a rainbow after a storm gives assurance,
Please touch my deep interbeing!
Reach deep with your melody.
The color of your eyes soft and warm
Leads the gardener to enter the
Window to your soul.
In this garden of where our souls touch,
Let us dance with rhapsody!
Never tiring__
Lovers' arms forever entwined.
Captivated by the colors and fragrance divine,
Of this our magical place.
Embracing the spontaneity of life’s dance
'Twas like an absorbing rainbow after a storm.
Love’s beauty will always have a place,
In our hearts and minds,
When we think of this cherished moment in time.
It will come like the rhythm of ocean’s waves.
Upon each beach’s sandy shore, a steady flow.
In moments of quiet interludes
Of our lives, a flash of memory will entreat us so...
Written: August 19, 2023
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In the shadow-lands, where marvels bear shape.
Love and kindness, as a story eager to scrape
A set of souls speaks by the syntax of the heart.
As it evolves, it is generous, tender, and smart.
Whispers of humanity—a gentle breeze does blow.
Carried by the wind, as birds in flight, they flow.
An art of eternal bliss, seeking grace abundantly,
A seeker of insightful wisdom, yearning to be free.
Hearing the call of oceans—a spark of our existence
The moon may wane, but love remains its essence.
In the depths of our souls, a crystalline, euphoric hue
Nature's healing power—embraces me and you.
Whispers of humanity, a symphony so grand,
A melody of love stretching across the land.
In the depths of our being, a link pure and deep,
A bond that transcends, a secret we all seep.
Through mumbling, we uncover tranquility.
A beating syntax that frees, no rest, no stability?
Every breath incorporates timeless elegance.
A sense of divine love that lasts for a trance
Seeker of knowledge, seeker of truth,
In the whispers of humanity, we find our youth.
Wisdom is the compass that guides us on our way.
To understand the power of love every day.
In whispers of humans, we hear the songs of birds.
Their melodies of joy, their heartfelt words
They teach us to embrace the beauty of each day.
To find solace in nature and let our worries sway.
Oceans call to us with their vastness and might.
Reminding us of our place in the grand design.
Waves crash upon the shore, a symphony of sound.
A reminder of the power that in our hearts is found.
In whispers of humanity, we find our purpose true.
To spread love and kindness in everything we do.
To be a source of healing, a beacon of light,
To uplift and inspire, to shape the world bright.
On the west coast of Africa
Stood a relics of ancient civilization
A golden shore, a light at the end of the tunnel
A pillar upon which the freedom of Africa is built.
Blessed with so diverse a culture
Yet unified with a strong structure
The Banku, the Kankay, Fufu
The Adinkra, the Kante, the Ankara.
The Koloko lite, the Adowa, the Azonto
Beats together the drums of unity and pride.
But Ghana is morethan a land of culture
It's a home to great minds and captivating hearts.
Ghana is indeed an enduring power of culture to unite.
A beacon of hope, home of light.
As the sun sets on the shores of the cape coast
It casts shadows of resilience and hope.
A Mid Summers Day
It is the perfect summer’s day
The suns warmth on my face
The lake calm as glass on a table
I sit there bobbing like a piece of driftwood
The lapping of water a serenade to peacefulness
The call of a loon nearby
The thumbs up
The deafening roar and ever so more
Every muscle in my body now tense
The knees bent and arms extent
I am propelled forward like a missile
The defining moment arrived, shall I fail or survive
At first I waiver like a giraffe’s first steps into life
The wind sweeps back my hair
The summer heat flushes my face
Like a blow dryer working its pace
Now I glide effortlessly as if standing on water
The shoreline passing at ever increasing speed
Exhilaration is now my need
Round and round we go as if in slow mo
Then once again my legs do go quiver
Adrenalin has met its match as exhaustion arrives
One minute on water the next I’m in
To shore, a beer, a smile and maybe a grin
Life of a water skier
Andreas Simic©
A road trip through the Pacific West,
from Seattle along Sequim,
Ocean Shore, Seaside,
all the way to San Francisco.
The Pacific roared beside.
Frequent signs warned of Tsunami hazard.
While a warning at a trinket shop
showed an evacuation route,
an ice cream ad promised a tsunami of delight.
People thronged the beaches en route,
least worried, all in mirth;
a gigantic tide was last on their list.
At Ocean Shore, a man and woman stood in tight embrace,
the lady sobbing without respite,
a personal tsunami on the heave,
wreaking havoc on their aching psyche.
The Pacific just looked on beside.
Humanity seemed a cluster of ants
on the rim of a tea cup left under a tap
savouring their last greedy grabs,
weeping over what is not.
The tap looks down upon.
Yet, away, unknown to them
two superpowers were locked
in an eye-ball confrontation
over things of least real concern
portending a nuclear conflagration.
Lo, the Pacific stands for peace
as her name really means,
while men portend real nemesis,
their own apocalypse.
In the timeless tumult of time’s tempestuous tide,
I find myself adrift, with neither rudder, nor guide.
Each crest and trough, a murmured decree of fate,
In this ceaseless sea, I strive to navigate.
Amidst the ragged rocks and soothing surf, where dreams collide,
I seek solace, my sore soul laid bare, resigned.
Yet, uncompromising currents, pull with inexorable might,
Toward shores unknown, beneath a shroud of darkest night.
Echoes of voices, carried on the sorrowful spray,
Haunt the silence of the sea, in their lamenting array.
Hopes and dreams—shattered and strewn, like seashells on the shore,
Memories, like luminous lanterns, lost to the fathoms forevermore.
Beneath the pale moon’s somber, silver stream,
Resounds the depth of my silent, sinister scream.
I am but a weary wraith, swallowed by the sweeping swell,
A spectral figure, ensnared in life’s accursed spell.
Yet amidst the chaos and crashing waves,
A glimmer of light, flickers upon the bay.
Echoing through the fog, a deep, sonorous horn I hear,
A newfound beacon of hope, dispelling dread and fear.
For in the heart’s harbor, a lighthouse stands tall,
It’s radiant light, burning bright, a beacon for all.
Its beam, piercing the darkness and fog, illuminating the way,
To navigate life’s ceaseless sea, safely a shore, a new day.
With halyard in hand, and renewed courage clear,
“Hoist the sails,” I command, charting course, despite the drear.
For in each cresting wave, a tale untold,
In every swirling storm, a chance to be bold.
Carried upon the currents, I forge my way,
Through storm and calm, night and day.
For life’s ocean vast, though fearsome and wild,
Is but a canvas, for the bewitched and beguiled.
-Edward
A seagull soars over the ocean with upward force and thrust
Far away in the distance a whale swims away from a human spoon
Another era of uncertainty, an empty shore, a virus battle cry
Resonating through the land Mother nature weeps, silently....
Classification of humans bawling at the sky what have we done ?
Rallies, lineups, vaccine hiccups, blubbering children of the past
Yearning for health we offer up our arms, hoping for freedom.
Date: April 29, 2021
Contest Name: This or That Vol 2
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
The Statue at the Crossroads of Cloud
We were frightened, two candles left standing in a southern wind,
we wept with tears of resin that washed nothing clean beneath the sky,
and stillness ran straight through us like water through a golden sieve,
while the road dissolved under our feet like the wax of a lonely dream.
You stood there humbled before a wave the moon had melted down,
a wave that had forgotten its own shore, a horse without its snow,
you were harsh with yourself, both the judge and the jailhouse at once,
and you caved in at the foundations like an altar bitten by ivy.
Yet still you kept trying to come, the way rain keeps looking for the sea,
with your footsteps of gentle ash on the staircases of the dream,
and I tore loose from the absurd unraveling like a bird
that flies with its own wing in its mouth — I left without ever leaving.
We both stayed on as a statue, two trees grown out of silence,
our roots braided together beneath a bridge that never was,
love unfulfilled, bread held in the hand until it turned to frost,
two voiceless lovers at the crossing of an old wayside stop.
That is how the tender love ended, struck by the thorn of the years,
by the winds that snap the mast clean off before the storm arrives,
by our staying far too long at that crossroads made of cloud,
where the last definitions of love ripened into bitter fruit.
What remains is glossy disillusion and long arcades of shiver,
forgettings that grow over our faces like moss on a cold stone,
and longing — a lantern burning in a house abandoned long ago,
burning in tears and in dreams, for a guest who is never coming.
My first love will always be the sea,
he said, as he continued and sighed.
Even though I know on shore a raven
haired beauty with a loving, warm heart
waits for me on land of endless tides.
She offers me the comforts I need and
her smell of lilacs, my heart to her it leads.
Her small hands each time waves good-bye
and without her knowing it, my heart deep
inside cries.
Happy to sea I may be, but I know someday
she'll grow tired of waiting for me. A Traveler
I may always be for my soul will forever belong
to the sea.
There is only one thing she asked of me and it
was to promise to share my heart with her through
out eternity; This for her I can do, but to my first
love, she knows I will always be true.
From Maurus' shore, a tide arose,
not of ocean, but of faith,
and shadowed Iberia's sun-kissed coast.
Moor, a word that held a continent,
a tapestry of Berber, Arab,
threaded with the blackness of the south.
They came with astrolabes and scrolls,
with sciences that bloomed in desert heat,
and gardens that remembered paradise.
Cordoba, a beacon in the darkened age,
where knowledge flowed like Guadalquivir's grace,
and minarets pierced the azure sky.
But names are fluid, shifting sands,
a Roman echo, broadened by the tongue,
to encompass all who bowed to Mecca's call.
From Lanka's spice to Philippine isles,
a label stretched, a simplification vast,
forgetting faces, histories untold.
And now, a whisper in America's heart,
a claim to roots, indigenous and deep,
a seeking for belonging, fiercely held.
Across the ocean, in a different guise,
the moor, a landscape, wild and windswept,
heather bloomed, a purple, silent reign.
The peaty earth, a memory of rain,
a stark reminder, beauty born of hardship,
a connection tenuous, yet somehow there.
Moor, a word that echoes through the ages,
a riddle wrapped in history's embrace,
a reminder that identities are fluid,
and truth lies buried, waiting to be traced.