Long Silver gray Poems
Long Silver gray Poems. Below are the most popular long Silver gray by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Silver gray poems by poem length and keyword.
As Dawn cracks over the horizon
The small crescent moon takes a bow
Greeting her was a delight
For she paints silver in his hair
The moon was hardly visible
Painted the same shade of blue
That the sky chose as a cloak
On this morning of early dew
The cloak of blue had a trail of mist
That shrouded the hills and vales
A misty blue to silver gray
That was light and very airy still
The birds enjoy the cloak
That fanned the air with damp
Cooling mist of the night
But soon the sun put on another
Cloak as she became much brighter
With her dress of brilliant red
That she wore to grace our summer's day
A cloak as colored as poinsettias' tips
On a gray December day
This means that the sun
Will bring heat with her as hot as
A fiery oak wood coal
And the cool of the morn
Will go as the summer's sun
Has bid us a warm hello
The moon with his silver hair
Disappearing into night
To another land so swiftly
Did he go to bring it a high tide
While ours will go very low
The sun rose cloaked in red
Bringing her heated stove
She will bake and cook some bread
Heating the south as across the sky goes
Last Will and Testament
I think ?, I have known all along
that one day, you would be gone,
as the days – for me – where few,
not much left – for me – from you.
Everything I have said - you have read.
there is not a word - you have not heard,
and so my dear, what is there left for me to say
to squelch the fear, in some compassionate way ?
Brighten up – for you and me – this sad, sad day.
The days we have known, now come to an end.
count upon you ?, will not know, can not call friend.
As you depart, step from my Probe, silver gray,
on your way into the light of a brand new day.
My soul sits silent – not a word – nothing more to say
for it all was – had been said – about the way
in which you left me, many times before, and that day.
Silence, it appears, is to be my fate,
darkened corridors, nothing you state
to enlighten – closure, none – no clean slate
as you move on, behind you, lock the gate.
I leave to L. B. - silence – I bequeath, to her, freedom.
Freedom from me, my presence, my thoughts, my feelings.
Freedom from my words, my prose and poetry of enlightenment,
enlightenments twisted by the prisons, the prisms of her mind
that have prevented her from enjoying, - with a clear conscious.
This I understand, for I know the life she has chosen in the light of
her nurturing, her nature and how they have come together
to create the heart and soul of this troubled young lady.
I bequeath to Linda, my acceptance, ( disappointing and heartbreaking
as this may be ), and my forgiveness ( for all ) for her termination
( in silent avoidance ) of our ?, friendship.
I leave to L. B. my heartfelt, best wishes for her new freedom ?, to enjoy
the relationship she has been cultivating for some time and for the
adventures that may come her way, as I, in specks, in slivers, in flakes,
flakes of fading light that vanish from sight as the wind changes
and I become not but a distant, fading memory, lost,
behind the steel doors of those dark corridors in her memories hoard .
Signed this 29th day, in the of our lord, 2004
Wm. J. Atfield Jr.
B. J. “A” 2
Feeling lonely I drove my car into the countryside
The hot sun scorched the earth that day
With picnic in hand I wanted to drink in nature
Finding a secluded spot under a tree near a field
I drank and ate and listened to the chirping birds
Feeling lazy I decided to take a walk
Out among the wheat fields golden stalks
I heard before I seen a lone cowboy ride up
Wind fluttered upon my cheeks as I slowly gazed
My heart decided to take an extra beat
There riding a magnificent stallion, black as night
Was the most striking figure I had ever seen
Black hair tinged with silver gray
Starring, weary blue eyes that looked my way
We gazed into each others eyes
The attraction was undeniable
As he dismounted his scent and sweat filled my nostrils
His exposed muscles tensed under the heat
My eyes widened at the sun burnt perspiring skin
As he took off his cowboy hat and wiped his brow
He greeted me with a seductive smile
Oh so handsome was this cowboy man
.
3/9/13
Quietly the red and gray ship slips out the river's mouth. Guided by the pilot's skilled
hand between the buoys into the open sea. The red paint a warm contrast to the soft blues and grays that surround land, river, sky and sea...
one lone seagull leads
a flock of twenty others...
higher, faster, soaring
A cargo ship noisly speeds between the buoys. The waters that it parted a stark silver-gray to its black hull. It is carrying only about a half of a load. Where will it go out on the ocean? What port does it seek with a ship half-full
of earthly goods?
heavenly portal
now many aged are seeking..
will their cargo go
A shrimp boat that looks like a mass of nets slowly glides through the buoys. Will it catch its fill of those delicious crustaceans? Will my net be filled when I come ashore?
The limestone cracked, and the timber turned to ghost,
Leaving only the St. James Tower behind—
A juggernaut monolith, a stone-ribbed host,
To the singular fire that the poets refined.
I watched from the rubble, a broken face,
While the bells within turned to cooling lead;
I was the witness to the city's ruined grace,
The heavy silence of the unhoused dead.
Then came the pulleys, the steam, and the rope,
The frantic rhythm of the Great Rebuild;
They hoisted me up on a ladder of hope,
To a height that the soot and the ashes had filled.
I am perched once more on a frame of new steel,
Watching the grid rise in brick and in glass,
But I know the heat that the stones can feel,
And the "cleansing" hours that the poets let pass.
I look down on streets that are paved with the past,
Where the Laureate walks with his polished refrain;
He thinks that the beauty is destined to last,
That the "rising" has washed out the blood and the stain.
But from my new seat on the skyscraper’s brow,
I see the serrated edge of the sky;
I was the gargoyle then, I am the gargoyle now—
The only one left who refuses to lie.
My fellows are cold and of unfeeling bone,
Rigid steel beams that ignore the wind's cry;
They do not breathe like the mortar and stone,
But pierce through the clouds with a silver-gray eye.
The city has hardened, its heartbeat is fast,
Wrapped in a skeleton, hollow and bright;
The companions of old were too fragile to last,
But these new giants thrive in the electric night.
The Bitter End of the Road
Travelers coalesce as if from as dense fog
about the grounds of the retreat.
The lodge shimmers silver-gray
amongst the changing autumn woods.
The gravel way diminishes in rearview mirrors
with the pinging sound of pebbles against
the metal horses of the day.
Civilization, ever trampling,
encroaches upon what ages ago
had been a pristine forest, now swarms
to the Lodge’s gates:
ants to the picnic
late comers in search of the scraps,
the leavings,
of much abused nature.
Slamming car doors, buzzing cell phones,
endless chatter accosts the forest’s skirt.
Beaten paths awaited those stalwart enough
to venture in, rushing ever forward
and upward
through the crunch of fallen leaves,
the snap of branch,
the distant warble of unseen birds.
Water, when near, adds
its own rush, and babble.
But, the smaller critters seem to have vanished
tracks and spoor, trampled
whether in reverence or disregard;
it matters not.
In our ever onward rush to enjoy,
the sounds of cricket,
cicada, the squirrels chitter,
the owls call;
we by our mere presence
destroy.
First Published by Poetry Quaterly
When the seconds don't flow with energy.
Don't wish to fight for the space, to be seen.
Essence doesn't fetch you double jeopardy.
Thoughts break through their own fences on the screen.
When I connect through pages of aged time.
My limbs that have run wild, now siesta.
The years lullabies and nursery rhyme,
being snapped away by an orchestra.
Tomorrow's melody, melting away.
Connect often with family and friend.
I admit my hair has turned silver gray.
Life's last journey - we will meet at the end.
10 syllables per line
LATE AUTUMN
by Gregory Firlotte
I sit by the window
at dusk
as the world outside
disappears slowly
one moment
after the other
and the silver gray sun
takes shelter
behind barren trees
to seek
another place
to shine once again
for someone else
sitting by another window
also peering
at the world outside
on this late Autumn day.
Gray skies now linger
and gray clouds now loom
But I am happy
to know
that I am warm
and I am content
to be sitting here
awaiting
the cold Autumn rain
that will soon trickle down
this window and cleanse
for once and for all
all final remains
of Summer away
and move on its way
to another place
to rain once again
for someone else
sitting by another window
also peering
at the world outside
on this late Autumn day.
Care not I for the day at noon,
air filled with the humidity of June,
Where is my full mystic moon,
share your golden radiance with me soon,
Bear witness to a lonely cricket's tune,
there you shine on every land, lake and dune.
Will the man in the moon smile bright?,
hill, tree and meadow are bathed in night,
Kill and extinguish the cloudy starlight,
sill of my window glowing luminous white,
Still is my heart as I see a glorious sight,
fills the sky as it reaches it's height.
Why wait there and make me weep?,
shy and slowly over the mountain top creep,
I thought that you were fast asleep,
my wandering gaze I shall forever keep,
Thy orange coloring is rich and deep,
by the time of the fall harvest reap.
It is time to play freely and escape,
visit me shrouded with a sheer silver drape,
Quit hiding and rise in a crescent shape,
sit above every blue snow, lagoon and cape,
Lit orbs eclipse, hued like a purple grape,
permit my wish and my mouth shall gape.
Make the night as bright as day,
lake waves seem to shimmer a silver-gray,
Break through the horizon, if you may,
opaque pearl that evokes a wolves' bay,
Wake early and until dawn, stay,
take all of my melancholy feelings away.
You mystify me as you wax and wane,
knew this waiting would drive me insane,
Do illuminate, please do not refrain,
too many evenings have ended in rain,
New moons alight every street, road and lane,
blue light now gleaming in my window pane.
Wizard Dream Feather
Four ancient stone cups filled with potions
Distinctly different spells filled to the top
Consumed by a bearded, ancient, wrinkled man
Downed from left to right in perfect sequential order
Down to the wizard mystic world enchantment spot
Old man breaths in powdered breath of blue
Above a pewter plate of silver gray
Molecules take on the magic of the mystic dish
Commingled atoms swirling
Wood table brightly lighted in the lab/library room
The dream feather comes from within
Hovers above the empty saucer sacred air
From nothing appears a spark of life
Nowhere in nature is it found but floating there
Empty plate displays a bird like invention clear
Plume curved slightly up and tall takes form
Stands two inches high in full rotation slow
Spiral like, soft on the edges brown and light
Scarlet red fills in the feather center
Neon yellows round out the shape
The lesson of the day is full deduction
Where does this rare duck specimen belong?
What is the origin wright or wrong?
This ornithological exercise still to be determined
Measured to conclusions on feathered strength
Wizard dreams puzzle to that end